


dove season

by kitseybarbours, Redcap64



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emperor Hux, Espionage, Kylo Amidala, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcap64/pseuds/Redcap64
Summary: When the newly-crowned Emperor Hux puts out a call for a consort, seeking to demonstrate his power, the Resistance to his rule sees an opportunity to infiltrate his inner circle. Kylo Amidala, prince of Naboo and son of the Resistance's leader, volunteers as their informer, and becomes Ren, a brothel-boy from Theed who ascends to a place of honour in Hux's court. Ren expects to play his part and go to Hux's bed — but it's there that his loyalties will truly be tested.





	1. Chapter 1

“It is much safer for a prince to be feared than loved.”  
-Niccolò Machiavelli, _The Prince_

It’s raining.

On Arkanis, the New Imperial court is asleep. The hulking stone palace is silent, a behemoth nestled in the foothills. Lightning strikes over the mountains: once, twice, flashing blue in the dark.

In the throne room of the palace, the newly-crowned Emperor Brendol Hux II is awake. He paces, fitful and discontent. His most trusted advisor stands patient, her parade stance impeccable, as she waits for him to need her.

These past months have been a blur — the old emperor’s sudden death, the shock (and, too, the relief) of the people. His only son, the crown prince, woken at midnight to be told, _You are emperor now;_ the bent knees in his bedchamber, oaths of fealty whispered in the dark and then repeated, days later, in front of his people at the coronation.

The young Hux had solemnly and eagerly — some say _too_ eagerly — accepted the crown, vowing to serve the people of the New Galactic Empire as loyally and bravely as his father had. He took the throne proud and hopeful, feeling the mantle of his destiny settle at last onto his shoulders, and for the first while, at least, his people had shared his hopes and aspirations. But soon enough things turned sour.

The old emperor had not been _liked —_ he was not a _likeable_ man — but he had been trusted, in court as on the battlefield. Hux the elder fought his share of wars — for the Republic in the Clone Wars, and the Old Empire in the Galactic Civil War, and then of course the coup d’état in which he won his throne and declared the Empire reborn; and after which came a time of peace that endures, however tenuously, to the present day.

His son, on the other hand, although educated at one of his father’s imperial military academies, has never been to battle. His father came to power before Hux was born, and he has had no reason to fight since his father’s victory. No matter how adept the young emperor is in strategy and simulation, his combat experience is entirely theoretical, and likely to remain that way. The people know this, and they don’t like it — or trust it.

(Add to this the whispers surrounding the young Hux’s birth — the identity of his mother, the truth about her past — and it is no wonder the new emperor now sits uneasy on his throne.)

In an effort to appease his subjects, Hux has been careful to maintain a balance in his court, dismissing as few of the old guard and replacing them with new members of the cabinet and the household as sparingly as he can, so as not to cause internecine scandal. His father chose his ministers, advisors, and personal attendants with as much care as he trained his troops, and Hux has been making sure to do the same, for an emperor is only as strong as the people with whom he surrounds himself.

But even this diplomatic attempt has been in vain. The court still speaks in dissatisfied murmurs, and there are whispers of popular discontent, a people mustering to protest. Hux knows he needs to act now and stop the crisis before it begins: he has sacrificed — and risked — too much to let the imperial crown slip now from his grasp.

After spending perhaps a quarter of an hour pacing in frustrated silence, under his captain’s vigilant gaze, the emperor speaks.

“The people resent me,” Hux states bluntly. “You’ve heard the rumours, Phasma. You know they suspect I killed him.”

“Rumours,” repeats the Captain of the Bodyguard, her face carefully schooled.

Hux pauses in his pacing to fix her with a glare. “Yes. _Rumours.”_

He resumes his circuit of the dark, empty throne room, his footsteps echoing off the vaulted stone walls. Rain lashes the wall of viewports that look onto the lush, sweeping front lawn of the New Imperial Palace.

“I need to gain their unwavering trust. I need to prove myself to them.”

Hux lapses into silence again, and again he paces. Back and forth, silhouetted against the transparisteel, the slim lines of his body clad, as ever, in the uniform of an army for which he’s never fought. The red of his hair is a shock against the eternal wet, grey bleakness of this planet; the finely-wrought crown encircling his head catches the faint blue light of the storm. _Imperator._

“They feared my father,” he says. “They did not love him, but they feared him. _I_ need to make them respect me.”

“Your father was first and foremost a soldier, sir,” Phasma says. “That was enough for them.”

She’s simply stating a fact, not trying to insult him, but it seems to hit a nerve with Hux all the same. “I _know,_ Captain,” he hisses, rounding on her. Lightning strikes outside, the fiery blue lightning of this planet, and the flash of light contorts his aristocratic features into an ugly mask. “What I need is a war.”

Phasma’s reaction is immediate concern. “Sir,” she begins, “I wouldn’t advise —”

“I’m not going to _start one,”_ Hux interrupts, waving a hand in irritation. “I’m not an utter fool, Phasma, and I’ll thank you to not treat me as one.” He sighs restlessly. “If the _Resistance_ would only expose themselves,” he ponders, pronouncing the name of the galactic counter-Imperial faction with distaste. (He’s not supposed to know that this faction exists, of course, but as the movement has grown in size, its existence has become an increasingly open secret.)  

“If they would do something provocative, rash, to give us a reason to attack… But no. The Queen of Naboo fought in the Civil War, same as my father. She’s too intelligent for that; she’ll keep her little pets in line and wait for us to make the first move.”

“Leia Amidala does not control the _whole_ Resistance,” Phasma reminds him. “One of the involved governments could still decide to go out on their own, giving the Empire cause to initiate a conflict…” She trails off; Hux is shaking his head.

“No. I can’t just wait for them to make a mistake. I need to act now, I need to gain my people’s confidence — or if not that, at least their deference. If I gain Arkanis’ trust and support, the rest of the Empire will follow.” His thumb comes up to trace absently over his bottom lip. “These people revere power,” he muses. “Power, and the trappings of it…”

Hux trails off. The solid, heavy stone throne in the centre of the room has caught his eye, and an idea begins to form. He pictures his father sitting on that very throne — weak grey daylight streaming in through the viewports; bodyguards flanking the dais; rows of courtiers and diplomats humbly presenting petitions. In the centre of it all, the emperor in his uniform and his garb of state, presiding stone-faced and tight-lipped — and at his side, no empress, but his mistress.

After winning his throne and proclaiming his new galactic order, to further secure his claim, Hux’s father had hastened to marry, with much public fanfare, a local noblewoman, the Lady Maratelle. He then proceeded to cloister her within the palace until such time as she emerged with a red-haired infant prince: the crowning glory of the war, the guarantee of the fledgling empire’s future.

But some months after the prince was born, the empress — always fragile, further weakened by the birth — died, plunging her husband and his people into mourning.

The emperor had never taken another wife, but for the rest of his tenure in power (twenty-nine years, six months, and three days, by his son’s count), he had kept a beautiful, haughty, foreign favourite, who remains at court to this day. To find her, the emperor had summoned the loveliest women from every corner of the galaxy (dainty pretty things, eyes rimmed in kohl and hair smelling of a thousand exotic perfumes), brought them to the palace, and chosen from among their ranks. His mistress, his favourite, was not only an accessory to his power, but proof of it — proof that lingers even after his death.

_The people must respect me._

Thunder rumbles overhead; rain pounds down on the roof of the palace. Hux turns to Phasma, a dangerous light sparking in his eyes. Phasma knows this look, and knows too to fear it.

“I need a whore.”

*

Within days the news has spread throughout the galaxy, through channels discreet and less so: just as his father once did, the young emperor seeks a consort (or more aptly, a concubine). Pillow girls, tavern maids, dancers of all stripes and species meet the news with glee — can it be their time has come at last? _They’re making a habit of it,_ snicker the women old enough to remember the first imperial search. _Too grand to fall in love the way the rest of us do._

 In every system, from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim, there is an exodus of the underworld: beautiful creatures leaving their homes and their old lives behind, flocking in droves to the New Imperial Palace, where, they hope, a glittering future awaits them.

When Queen Leia Amidala of Naboo learns of the search, she knows it’s the chance they’ve been waiting for.

“The Resistance must use this to our advantage,” she tells her fellow rebel leaders that night. She stands at the head of the table in one of the secret meeting rooms of the royal palace in Theed. Around the table are the forms, both holographic and physical, of the other heads of the Resistance-affiliated governments; Leia has called a mass meeting to discuss their strategy. “This could be the perfect opportunity to plant a new informer inside the Imperial Court.”

Several Resistance members wince: their previous spy was a young Twi’lek, who had been found out and executed by Brendol Hux I just six months before he died. Since this time, the Resistance has been without a source inside the Empire, to keep them informed and vigilant in preparation for a conflict that seems closer to boiling over every day.  But now the new emperor has provided the Resistance with the ideal opening to worm their way back in.

“The rumours of a massive Imperial weapons project known only as ‘Starkiller’ have increased my conviction that we can continue no further without an informer on the inside,” Leia continues. “We need to track their every move and find out what their goals are — if and when they’re going to strike. The Resistance must be ready.”

The meeting nods and murmurs its agreement.

At Leia’s side is her co-regent, her brother Luke, acting as king since the shocking death of Leia’s husband Han last year. Next to Luke is his daughter Rey, a princess of the blood, and beside Rey her cousin Ben — Han and Leia’s son, better known as the crown prince Kylo Amidala.

All the royal family have eschewed the traditionally elaborate costumes and makeup of the Naboo aristocracy. The non-Imperial galaxy has been suffering economically since the rise of the New Empire under the first Emperor Hux — but even before that, out of solidarity with their people, Leia and her family chose to largely do away with their ostentatious garb. Now, at a non-state occasion, the queen is dressed in the simple military gear that she prefers; Luke, a Jedi Knight, wears his robes; his daughter is a pilot, but dressed for now in a loose shift with leggings and soft boots. The young prince Kylo wears black for his father, though the official period of mourning ended months ago.

As his mother continues the meeting, explaining her plan and its goals, Kylo stays silent, his hands folded in front of him and his dark hair falling in his face.

“…the court is seeking potential _royal favourites_ from all over the galaxy, Imperial systems and otherwise,” Leia is saying. “It is therefore my belief that the Resistance should send in several agents, undercover, in the hopes that one of them will be selected. With that kind of proximity to the emperor, they would be the ideal informer.”

Her pronouncement sends stunned ripples through the crowd. Kylo looks up from his hands, surprised: this is the first he’s heard of his mother’s plan. He glances at his uncle and cousin, who look equally poleaxed; Leia has, evidently, kept her ideas to herself. Leia regards the murmuring delegates for a moment, her face sternly set, and then raises a hand to hush them. The crowd falls silent.

“You have questions,” says the queen.

The delegate from Coruscant raises his hand. “Won’t it be dangerous, Your Highness?” he asks bluntly.

“Frankly: yes, it could be. But I remind you, Senator, that many of the other missions on which our agents have been sent have been dangerous,” Leia says calmly, “and, by and large, they have returned unscathed.”

The Coruscanti senator seems about to protest — no doubt thinking of the Twi’lek — but, at a glance from Leia, he merely nods, tight-lipped.

The hologram of the Mon Calamari delegate lifts an arm. Leia nods. “How will the agent be chosen?”

Leia sighs. “This is where I hesitate. It is my belief that, due to the…unconventional nature of this mission, and its potential to become an indefinitely long-term commitment — as well as, yes, the heightened risks associated with infiltrating and staying hidden within the Imperial court — the agent chosen should be a volunteer. I will not assign anyone this task; rather, I would prefer that they choose to undertake it themselves.”

The delegates nod in agreement. Leia looks around, seeming satisfied, and then says, “I ask that interested and _capable_ agents make themselves known to the representatives of their governments, who will then pass that information on to me. My council and I will evaluate the applicants and then make a choice; we are hoping to begin the mission within the next week, if at all possible —”

“I’ll go.”

All the heads in the room turn at once to the sound of this new voice. It’s the prince.

Leia frowns deeply at her only son. “Kylo?”

“I said I’ll go.” Kylo stands to his full height, towering over his mother. His palms are flat on the table and his voice is calm as he says, “I can do it. I’m capable and I’m willing. I’ll go.”

Murmurs, again, louder now —  _the crown prince of Naboo?_

The young prince has participated in several missions for the Resistance, reconnaissance flights and smaller things, anything where his Force powers or his flying skills will provide an advantage. But since the death of the king, Leia has been especially protective of Kylo: never explicitly preventing him from taking part in their operations, but showing a reluctance all the same, wary of her only son putting himself in harm’s way. None of the delegates present expect the Queen to acquiesce to Kylo’s will — she’d said it herself, it will be a dangerous mission: one for an experienced agent, and preferably not one with royal blood.

But none of the delegates are inside Leia Organa’s head.

 _Please, Mother,_ Kylo thinks, opening the Force-bond he and his mother share. _Let me go. I’ll do whatever the Resistance needs me to._

 _It’s not safe,_ Leia thinks back, her objection immediate and fierce. _We need you here, Kylo. I don’t want to risk losing you, too._

 _I’ll be safe,_ Kylo promises. _I know I can do this. Please let me._

Leia frowns, her eyes wary and sad. _Don’t feel like you have to make up for your father._

 _Mother._ Kylo pleads with her in silence, his dark eyes fixed on her.

They remain that way for some minutes, mother and son locked in a silent struggle. The room is so still one could hear a pin drop.

But finally, Leia nods.

Kylo smiles.

“It’s decided,” Leia says wearily. “My son, Kylo Amidala of Naboo, will be presented to the Emperor as one of the potential favourites. If he is chosen, he will be our informer at court. _But,”_ Leia reminds the delegates firmly, “we need other agents, too. The prince will not be the only one we send. Absolutely not.”

The meeting is adjourned. Holograms fizzle out all around the room; delegates who are physically present make their way out of the palace and into the Naboo night, back to their transports and back to their beds — the emergency meeting had been called in the dead middle of the night. _Democracy never sleeps,_ Kylo thinks wryly, watching the various senators, diplomats, and heads of state leave the palace.

“Ben,” Leia Amidala says, taking advantage of the general hubbub to draw her son aside, placing her hands on his forearms and looking up at him. She only uses his birth name like this when she’s angry or worried — and at the moment, Kylo can’t tell which it is. “Why did you volunteer?”

“Well, I’m as likely as anyone to be chosen by the emperor,” Kylo points out: not in arrogance, merely stating a fact. He’s attractive, unconventionally but undeniably so, and close — but not too close — to the young emperor’s own age. And he has a curious charm about him, an easiness in his own skin that puts others equally at ease and makes them eager to please him — just as eager as Kylo, by all appearances, is to please them. He knows, as does his mother, that all of these things will work in his favour.

“I suppose so,” Leia admits grudgingly. “And I know you’ve been wanting to contribute more to the Resistance’s efforts, especially after…Well. I just wish it wasn’t _this_ mission,” she says, dry, but with real regret.

“I’ll be fine, Mother. I promise.” Kylo spreads wide his hands, the look on his face begging her to trust him. “Besides, we don’t even know if I’ll be chosen,” he reminds her, in direct defiance of his previous confident statement. “I could just show up there and be rejected on the spot. Back home and safe and sound in no time.” He grins at her with that childish gleam in his eye — a little boy tugging at his mother’s sleeve, coaxing her to join in his game.

Leia surveys his beloved face a moment longer. _My son. There’s too much of his father in him._

“It’s decided, then,” she says reluctantly. “We’ll commence preparations in the morning. I hope to have you on Arkanis by week’s end.”

*

By midday the next day they’ve created a whole new life for Kylo.

On their own home planets, the other potential Resistance spies are no doubt getting the same treatment, working out false life stories and changing their appearances so as to maximise their chances of being chosen. The new emperor is a notoriously private man; no one knows for sure what his particular tastes might be, and so the Resistance, at least, is taking pains to ensure that nearly every possibility is taken care of.

Kylo’s cover story is that he is a dancer from the poorer part of Theed, a pretty youth with no family except the other whores at the brothel where he works. His name, they’ve decided, will be _Ren —_ it sounds Naboo enough to be believable, but not royal in the slightest. Luckily, Leia and her family have always tried to keep out of the public eye — and even more so after Han’s death. There’s a chance that Emperor Hux will never even have seen a holo of Kylo, and certainly not in regular clothing, his hair un-styled and his face bare of cosmetics. The most recent royal family portrait was painted several years ago, and besides, the only copy of it hangs in the throne room of the palace in Theed. Kylo is confident he won’t be recognised as Ren.

“We’ll keep in touch without technology,” Leia asserts. “You’ll more than likely be searched upon your arrival, and scanned as well; we can’t risk such a trivial mistake as the discovery of a comm chip. As such, you will maintain regular contact with Rey and me through the Force only.”

After Kylo volunteered to go to Arkanis, his cousin the princess had immediately stepped up too; she is Force-sensitive as well, and the Force-bond she and Kylo share will be put to use along with his and Leia’s, as a secure and virtually undetectable means of contact.

“We’ll expect briefings as often as you’re able to pass them on. You’ll be our only reliable source of Imperial intelligence, and _any_ information could be vital. It’ll be important that you keep us up to date.”

“If I’m chosen,” Kylo reminds her. It sounds like _when._ Leia’s nose wrinkles.

“If you’re chosen,” she repeats. “Yes.”

Two days later everything is ready.

Kylo is dressed in simple, warm travelling clothes: too hot for Naboo, but Arkanis is a grim and rainy planet, not at all a pleasant place from which to rule an empire. As he stands on the tarmac at dawn, waiting for the hired shuttle to arrive (nothing from the royal fleet; something anonymous, the pilot well-paid for his silence), Kylo looks around at the massive trees swaying gently in the breeze; closes his eyes and feels the warmth of sunlight on his cheek. He’ll miss this.

 _I might be back,_ he reminds himself, again; but he sounds less convinced every time.

“Ben.”

Kylo opens his eyes to find Rey standing in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks decidedly put-out.

“Rey.” Kylo puts his hands on her shoulders. “Are you angry with me?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she says bluntly. “I have a bad feeling.”

“About the mission?”

Rey nods. Kylo frowns. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t take too much heed, but this is Rey. His cousin, like him, is an adept Force-wielder — actually, Rey’s powers are stronger than Kylo’s, though he’d never admit it — and so when she has a _bad feeling_ about something, it’s more likely to mean something than when most people do. “Why’s that?”

“You think you’ll be chosen,” Rey states. “That’s why you’re going. You’re almost certain of it.”

Kylo raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know anything for sure,” he says, dodging the point. “I could be back here in a matter of days.”

“You won’t be.” Rey says this flatly, with absolute, resigned confidence. If he didn’t already know that his cousin’s powers don’t extend to clairvoyance, Kylo might have started to have second thoughts about leaving. “This feeling — I was meditating this morning and it came over me like a dark cloud.” She frowns deeply. “I felt…I felt _doom,_ Ben.”

“Don’t talk like that, Rey,” Kylo protests at once. “It was just a feeling — you could’ve picked up on anyone’s thoughts. Maybe one of the gardeners found rot in the rosebushes under your balcony this morning: there’s your doom for you! Everything will be fine. Even if I _am_ chosen, I’ll stay safe,” he promises. Gently he draws her in for a hug, rubbing comforting circles on her back; after a moment Rey leans into the embrace, grumbling against his neck.

“I still don’t like it.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” Kylo assures her, pulling back to look her in the eyes. He taps his temple: “We’ve got a bond, remember? You have a direct line to me any time you need me. Although,” he says, considering, a smile playing on his lips, “if I _am_ chosen to play favourite, you’ll want to remember the time difference and avoid dropping in for a chat late at night, just in case —”

“All right, all right, that’s it, I don’t _care_ if you never come back from Arkanis, _I never want to think about that again,”_ Rey interrupts him emphatically. “Have fun with the emperor; I’ll be here, purging that thought from my mind,” she adds, giving him a shove.

Behind her, the transport that will take Kylo to the Outer Rim makes its slow, noisy descent. Rey hears the engines and turns to look. “So this is it,” she says.

Kylo nods. From the palace now come his mother and his uncle, both impeccably dressed and looking businesslike despite the early hour. When they approach, Kylo wordlessly takes his mother’s arm, Rey Luke’s, and the royal family processes over to the waiting ship. The ramp lowers.

“Best of luck, Ben,” Luke says seriously, breaking the silence. “This is an important job, and if you are chosen, we’re trusting you to do it well.”

Kylo nods. “I will, Uncle.”

Luke smiles, his blue eyes creasing tiredly. “I know.”

Leia takes her son’s hand in both of hers. “Good luck, Ben,” she says softly. She looks up into his face, memorising it, unsure when she’ll see it next. For a moment, a cold fear grips her —  _what if this is the last time I see him alive?_ They’d never suspected that the morning Ben and Han had set out for the Lake District last autumn would be the last morning of Han’s life, and yet… _Don’t think like that._

Leia presses a kiss to her son’s cheek. “Stay safe.”

Kylo kisses his mother’s forehead. Leia closes her eyes. “I will, Mother. I’ll make you proud. I promise I’ll come back to you.”

Leia blinks back tears. Before they have the chance to overflow, Rey has gently sidestepped her aunt and thrown herself back into Kylo’s arms — but only for a second. She punches him hard in the chest. “You’d _better_ come back.”

“Will you and your suitors come chasing after me if I don’t?” Kylo teases. Finn and Poe Dameron, not to mention Rey, are some of the planet’s — maybe even the galaxy’s — best pilots, and Kylo knows without a doubt that at even the slightest indication of trouble from him, they’ll be halfway to Arkanis in their X-wings.

“Yes, we will,” Rey says definitively. She swipes furiously at her eyes, and Kylo smiles.

He drops a kiss on her forehead and says, “You won’t have to. I promise,” he repeats. He catches his mother’s eye. “I promise.”

*

The air in the palace smells of steel.

Kylo — but no, he is _Ren,_ now — stands among the last half-dozen potential royal favourites in an antechamber, waiting for the final selection.

Just yesterday there had been hundreds of them, maybe more: milling about the cold, imposing palace with wide eyes, filling the unfriendly air with nervous chatter, hushed laughter, and a mélange of perfumes. Early in the morning, they were called to line up and be tested, by an army of med-droids, for a slew of diseases from every corner of the galaxy; anyone found unclean was dismissed at once. Ren is lucky: years of caution on this front have kept him safe, kept him here.

For those who remained, there then came a long day standing around in an empty cavernous room, being eyed and poked at and dismissed, one by one, by members of the emperor’s household staff. All the candidates — humans and aliens of all species, physiologies, and genders — had waited with bated breath as the officials roamed through their ranks, sharp-eyed and brusque, selecting the rejects seemingly at random and dismissing them with a curt shake of the head.

All day like this, and the hundreds were slowly whittled down to the few of them who are left today. Remarkably, Ren is the only one left of the Resistance’s spies, and he can see no discernible rhyme or reason to how these last lucky few of them were chosen. Of the others who remain, he identifies two Twi’leks, a male and a female; a tall, frighteningly lovely Hapan warrior woman —  _she’d warm his bed_ and _plan his wars —_ and a lithe, pink-skinned Zeltron man. This last belongs to a race famed for their amorous prowess, and Ren assumes, upon catching sight of him, that without a doubt he’ll be chosen.

This thought should soothe him. Instead, it bothers him.

_I want to stay._

Since his arrival on Arkanis, or perhaps even sooner than that, Ren has become determined to prove himself with this mission: to be chosen, to seduce the emperor, to gain his trust — and then to share his secrets; dismantle his schemes and restore equality and harmony to the galaxy. It will not bring his father back, but it will begin to make amends. This will be his penance.

_My mother has been at war all her life. I will not live mine the same way._

Ren is cold. The palace walls are thick stone, and they seem infused with the chill and the damp; outside, it rains on, and Ren is dressed rather unsuitably for the weather. Upon his arrival, Kylo’s travelling clothes were switched out for Ren’s costume, typical among the whores of Naboo. He wears loose, ankle-cinched trousers of a gauzy black material, diaphanous but clinging in all the appropriate places; above these, thin strong gold chains encircle his biceps and drape across his chest. His hair is half-plaited; his torso is bare. He is exposed. He is nervous.

Ren sighs, wrapping his arms around himself for a moment, but he quickly straightens up and lets them fall to his sides when he sees one of the emperor’s agents approaching. _This is it,_ he knows somehow.

He sweeps a lock of hair from his eyes and tries to look alluring. The agent comes closer, appraising him from top to toes: Ren turns in a slow circle when asked to do so, his heart pounding all the while. He considers using the Force to sway the decision — but something stops him.

And in the end, he doesn’t need to. A hand on his arm:

“You. Come with me.”

And that is that. He’s taken in to the emperor’s private quarters.

The apartments are sprawling and spacious, but austere, possessing no personal touches, no sense of the man himself. The air is chill and carries the same metallic scent, reminding Ren of the recycled air aboard a spacecraft. He’s brought into the receiving-room, where several straight-backed chairs sit in an unwelcoming line and a low fire burns in a marble hearth. Ren glances at the silent servant who’s escorting him, and having received a nod from her, goes to warm himself by the fire.

The servant seems practically to melt out of the room, the door sliding quietly shut behind her. Ren is alone, staring into the flickering flames and trying to prepare himself — but not for long.

Somewhere within the suite of rooms, a door opens. The sound of boots on stone is heard.

A side door to the sitting-room is opened. In darkness stands a figure.

“Hello.”

The voice is refined, smooth and level like the stone of the palace walls, with an upper-class, distinctly Imperial accent. It brings to mind diplomacy and order, heads born to wear crowns. The figure steps forward and into the dim light.

Ren looks up. He has seen the coronation portrait; he knows the fiery hair, the sea-glass eyes at once. The firelight casts flickering shadows on the emperor’s skin, turning it to marble, alabaster; his lips are full and know disdain. He is tall, taller than Ren had expected, nearly of a height with him — but without the heavy robes and chains of state he’d sported in the portrait, he looks lean and slim and young. His shoulders seem too slender to bear the weight of an empire. _I could,_ Ren thinks, _break him apart._

The emperor crosses the room in long elegant strides and comes to take a seat in the chair facing Ren’s; he wears a full military uniform even at this late hour. He folds his gloved hands in his lap and smiles, no warmth reaching his eyes. “Ren. That is your name, isn’t it?”

 _Only as of recently._ Ren swallows. “Yes, Majesty.”

“ _My lord_ or _sir_ will do,” the emperor corrects him. “We are not on show here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You come from Theed, Ren? You are a dancer there?” Emperor Hux asks indifferently. When Ren nods yes, Hux smiles again. He looks a charming snake. He stands, and motions with one hand that Ren rise too. “Come with me.”

 _Already._ Ren swallows his brief apprehension and flashes what he hopes to be an enticing smile at Hux. “Of course, my lord.”

He stands, and sees at once Hux’s eyes sweeping over his body. Ren poses, subtly, for him — shoulders held back, hips angled prettily — and sees a flicker of approval in the emperor’s eyes. Hux beckons. “Come, now. Follow me.”

Ren dips his chin and gives another flirting smile, but behind the coy façade he grows anxious. He has no idea what awaits him, what he might be expected to do, tonight or the next night or the one after that. The Resistance had not known, when he volunteered, and does not know even now, what it is, exactly, that Hux will want from his new favourite. Ren realises dizzily for the first time how completely naïve he has been, how foolish. _Anything could happen._ But he pushes down his sudden fears and stands to follow the emperor.

Hux leads him through his private suite: a parlour, smaller and more intimate than the receiving-room; a dining area; a study, the door firmly locked with, Ren notices, three keyholes as well as a fingerprint scanner. Each room is finely appointed but so _stark,_ devoid of comfort and familiarity. Rain beats down on the viewports, and Ren thinks again of the lovely light-filled palace of Naboo, of his own apartments there — smaller than these, but more lived-in, more like a home than an extension of the throne room.

“With the exception of the study, these rooms are free for your use,” Hux informs him carelessly. “A guest suite has been prepared for you, but…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. His silence is heavy with meaning, and when Ren catches it he smiles hesitantly again. “Yes. Of course,” he murmurs.

“And with that in mind,” Hux continues, coming to a stop in front of a sleek black door, “here we are.” He presses his thumb to the scanner; the lock whirs and beeps, and the door slides open with a polished _hiss._ Hux enters, and Ren follows him through.

“Oh,” he says, unable to stop himself. Hux watches him take it all in, his chin lifted slightly and a haughty smile playing on his lips.

The emperor’s bedchamber is nothing like the rest of his apartments. Two doors open off of it, leading presumably to a refresher and dressing-room, just like in the palace in Theed. The ceiling is seemingly endless, vaulted high above their heads; the viewports arch dramatically to the dark sky. The walls are hung with tapestries, and they make the stone seem warmer. Another fireplace roars. The light is warm, too, and the air in here is thick, luxurious: Ren feels the lingering chill evaporate from his skin.

In the centre of this room — this unexpected sanctuary, the feeling of a country lodge tucked inside this titan palace — sits a bed. The headboard is made of _wood,_ surprisingly, where all the other furniture has been metal or plasteel. The bed is covered in layers of blankets and furs, all silvery-grey and soft-looking; Hux sees Ren’s gaze catching and says, “Wampa fur.”

“You’re cold, at night,” Ren blurts out, all coquettishness gone. Hux raises his eyebrows, and Ren hurries, bumbling, to explain. “The room — it’s not designed to be as showy as the rest; just warm. You’re happy here. You can relax. You sleep like a child, but — but only if you’re warm.”

Abruptly Ren stops. He lowers his gaze, his face hot, wanting to sink into the floor. These observations were partly his own, but mostly picked up from the Force: the feelings of safety and satisfaction radiating from Hux as soon as he’d stepped through the doors, a sense of _home_ that hadn’t been present anywhere else. These things are ever-so-slightly too subtle, too precise to have been deduced by a non-Force-sensitive person, and a _stranger,_ at that.

Upon his arrival on Arkanis, and then again today after he’d been chosen, Ren had been, as his mother had predicted, strip-searched and scanned, and been found clean, labelled _not-a-spy._ No one has questioned him, no one has recognised him. He is Ren and he is not a threat: not a risk, not _anybody._ They’ve admitted him to the inner sanctum of the court, here, alone with the emperor; he’s made it, he’s where he needs to be — and now he’s thrown it all away. He feels his cover story disintegrating, the mission going up in flames because of his own inability to keep his mouth shut. _That’s it. The game is up._

He waits for the suspicion to creep into Hux’s eyes, waits for the shout of _Guards!_

Neither comes. Instead, the emperor laughs. It’s a sharp, brief burst — surprising even Hux himself, it sounds like; but all the same, he laughs, and it’s like the statue’s come to life.

“If I’m warm!” Hux repeats. “Well. You _are_ insightful, aren’t you, Ren of Theed?” he muses, eyebrows raised. “Quite the trick you have. Did you pick all that up from the décor?”

Ren nods, struck mute.

“Impressive.” The emperor steps closer to him and lifts one gloved hand. Instinctively, Ren shirks back from the touch, but then remembers that he’s not a prince, not here; he’s not allowed to deny anyone permission to touch him. _Quite the opposite, in fact._ He swallows, and tries to look charming again, careless and coy.

The emperor cups Ren’s jaw in his hand, examining his face. “Pretty,” he says softly. “Unusual, but pretty. They chose well.”

“Do you mean — it wasn’t you who chose me?” Ren asks, rather too boldly, in genuine surprise.

“I had…specifications,” Hux replies enigmatically, “and my household was instructed to make a choice based on those specifications.” _Do with that what you will,_ his tone seems to say.

“I see.” Ren is unsure what to make of this admission — as, he’s sure, Hux had intended.

The emperor’s hand is still on his face, the leather of his gloves butter-soft against Ren’s skin. He inspects him for a moment longer, Ren growing increasingly apprehensive under his scrutiny; but finally he drops his hand, apparently satisfied. “You’ll do well, I think,” he observes casually. “Very well.”

Hux seems to be waiting for something. Ren wets his lips slightly. “Do you require anything from me now, sir?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant although the words feel strange and dry in his mouth. He is a prince —  _was_ a prince; he is not accustomed to being at anyone’s bidding.

“Not tonight,” Hux replies simply. He looks at Ren a second longer. “You’re tired,” he states, and as he says it Ren realises just how true it is. “Aren’t you?”

Ren nods. “Yes, sir.”

“I imagine you’d prefer to sleep alone, tonight.” It’s a command cleverly disguised as a choice: Ren will learn that this is rather a specialty of Hux’s.

Ren knows he’ll need to check in with his mother, let her know that the mission is successfully underway. Sleeping alone is a luxury he doesn't think he'll be afforded much longer, and he knows he should take advantage of the chance for privacy while he still can. (The issue of how to _remain_ in touch with the Resistance, after tonight, is a matter for another time.)

For now, though, Ren is surprised at how easily obedience comes.  

“Yes, sir. If I may.” He looks demurely at Hux and tries to imagine he’s used to this.

Hux nods, granting permission. “You can find the way on your own, I trust?”

The servants have all gone, and it would, of course, be beneath him to escort Ren to his rooms himself. Ren nods.

“Good.” Hux smiles, cursory, but with an edge of —  _something,_ now. It’s gone as soon as it’d come. “Goodnight, Ren of Theed. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, my lord. Goodnight.”

Ren bows low and leaves the room without turning his back on Hux. It’s an ingrained gesture, instilled in Ren from his childhood — utterly superfluous when you’re a little prince leaving his parents' rooms after they've kissed you goodnight; but feeling necessary here, a genuine precaution. The emperor, Ren can tell already, is just the type of man to strike you when your back is turned.

Ren finds his way to his suite in the dark: night comes early and fast on this planet. There’s a bedroom, with a bed more than big enough for two, covered in throws and furs less luxurious than those in the emperor’s room, but looking like they’ll still stand up well enough against the creeping rainy chill. He has his own refresher, too. Grateful and shivering, Ren shucks off his flimsy clothing and adornments (the gold chains whispering gracefully when they hit the tiled floor), and turns the shower to the hydro setting rather than the more efficient sonics. He allows himself a few moments of blissful warmth under the spray, feeling his muscles relaxing and his eyes growing heavy. It’s late.

But his real work has hardly begun.

Ren towels off and goes to the wardrobe, not expecting to find anything inside. His own clothes, the warm travelling-things brought from Naboo, were confiscated during the selection process, and replaced with the showy concubine’s clothing which is now in a gauzy heap on the floor. He hadn’t thought much about what he was to do for clothing if he happened to be chosen — but it would appear that’s been taken care of for him.

The wardrobe doors swing open to reveal row upon row of sumptuous fabrics, silks and gauzes and damasks and brocades. Even at first glance, Ren can tell they’re all cloths and styles from his homeworld: flowing robes, trailing sleeves, everything soaked with colour, peppered with jewels. He reaches out a hand to stroke the embroidered sleeve of a tunic, and smiles, recognising an old-Naboo sunburst design. _Like home._

He’s amazed at the speed with which all this has been acquired, and _how._ The New Empire has a reputation for efficiency, but this is above and beyond. And they certainly _don’t_ have a reputation for decadence, so this luxury is surprising; favourite or not, Ren had expected to be clothed in blacks or drab greys, the same functional, anonymous garb he’s seen on the rest of the servants so far. The appearance of these bright, ornate garments is a comfort to him. Before the New Empire, these had been the colours and fabrics of home.

 _But,_ he remembers, he is _Ren,_ and not Kylo, Prince of Naboo. Ren has never seen luxury like this. Ren has only dreamed of wrapping himself in velvets and silks, decking his fingers in rings. The clothes — the costumes, for he sees now that that is what they are — are a treat, a gift, and a reminder: _You are his now, and you have only one purpose. You are an ornament here._

Ren’s fingers linger on the jewelled collar of a robe. How strange it is, that his family should give up these clothes because of the Empire, and that now the emperor himself should clothe him in them once again. It feels almost an insult to his homeworld, to be dressed in their garb as he seduces the man who would wage war against them —  _but,_ he reminds himself, _I am here to prevent that. I am here to save them._

He sets aside the heavy, lavish garments and searches through the wardrobe for something to sleep in. He finds loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt of a soft, finely-woven material that feels like it will be warm; he is shivering, standing as he has been, wrapped in a towel with his wet hair hanging loose, and he dresses quickly. That done, Ren takes a seat on the bed, legs crossed, and closes his eyes.

He reaches out with the Force, awakening one of the dormant bonds ever-present at the back of his consciousness. _Mother?_

 _Kylo. Finally. What can you tell me?_   comes Leia’s voice in his head. The response is immediate; she must have been waiting. Ren feels slightly guilty, but reminds himself that he couldn’t have contacted her any earlier.

 _I did it, Mother. He chose me,_ Ren tells her. He feels a bizarre pride at having outdone the others, won the game _. I’m to stay._

 _Oh, Kylo._ His mother sounds upset, at first; but her next words come quickly, masked with forced cheer and relief. _Good. That’s good. You’ll start right away, then — you’ll get as close to him as you can; he needs to trust you, Kylo, or we’ll never get anywhere —_

Ren interrupts her, sensing her anxiety. _I know. Don’t worry._

Quickly he fills her in on what he’s seen of the palace so far — the austere décor, and the silent, formidable household staff, dressed all in grey with the Imperial crest on their arms, looking like nothing so much as an enormous subservient military regiment. _Which, actually, they might be,_ he adds, laughing a little.

 _And the emperor?_ Leia asks, getting right to the point. _Did you see him?_

 _Yes,_ Ren replies reluctantly. This is what he’d hoped to avoid discussing, but of course it’s what the Resistance most needs. _I met him; I spoke with him. He seemed to…approve of me._

 _What sort of a man is he?_ Leia pries further. _Will he be easily persuaded to trust you?_

 _No,_ Ren admits. _No. I can see that already._ _But I will... do my best. More than that,_ he adds quickly, sensing his mother about to interrupt him. _I will do anything I need to, to gain his confidence and pass his secrets — the Empire’s secrets — on to you._

 _I know you will, Kylo,_ Leia replies, and she sounds — feels — tired. _That’s what worries me._ She pauses. _But what’s done is done. We’re counting on you._

 _I know._ There is a silence.

Leia’s last words before she breaks the bond are gentle, but somehow still foreboding. _Goodnight, Kylo. Good luck._

His head goes silent. Ren is left feeling terribly alone.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been in the works for over a year, and we're _so_ excited to finally be sharing it with you! All our thanks to [Gefionne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gefionne/works), for beta-ing and also writing our summary, a field in which we both are hopeless and she excels; and to [bygoneboy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy) and [betts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts), for offering input on the opening scene all those months and months ago. Bonus points to anyone who caught the Hamlet allusion. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

*

Ren wakes early, the planet’s damp cold seeping into his bones and nesting there, to such a point that he is unsure if he will ever be able to force it out. His furs lie in a pile at the end of his bed, pushed to the side in the darkest hours of the night, when violent memories had sent him tossing. He reaches into his mind, claws as far as he dares into the hidden recesses of his thoughts: searching, digging, chasing after the final fleeting images that hurtled him into wakefulness. He cannot seem to catch up, and the images slip through his grasp. He focuses, harder and harder, until the nightmare — the reawakening of a past best forgotten (autumn leaves drowning in a pool of blood, the scent of it heavy on his tongue) — vanishes.

Ren shivers violently, muscles trembling as he swings his feet over the edge of the bed to hit the floor. He moves toward the wardrobe, hurried. The doors to the closet swing wide, and he pauses, deliberating, weighing what will best appeal to the man he has been sent here to seduce.

He reaches instinctively for the bright colors of the sunburst-patterned silken garment standing out amid the wash of colours, purples and blues and the deep orange of sunset. He pulls it from the rack, admiring, longing, greedy, his hands dancing over the fabric and holding it up against his skin as he peers into the large ornate mirror hanging inside the wardrobe’s door.

 _No._ Ren drops his hand, and forces the robe back in among the other clothes. It is too soon, too unjust, to dress like a king when he has no kingdom to rule — when he should have nothing but the pleasure of another on his mind. 

He reaches once more into the closet, grabbing from within a rich purple wrapping, sheer in all the places that matter, modest in none: a teasing shadow of what will come with the slip of a knot and a jerk of the fabric, tumbling to the floor until he is left shivering and bare, goosebumps rising along his body with the first kiss of air. _This will do; this will be perfect._

He hurries to the refresher, leaving a trail of thin sleepwear in his wake, and cleans and dresses quickly, making to slip out of his room before the quiet hours of the morning bleed away under the feeble heat of the sun. He hopes he will be able to find something, anything, that he can relay to his mother, that he can use to his —to _their —_ benefit. He leaves his bedroom and enters the small sitting-room outside.

He senses the stranger before he sees her.

The first thing that Ren notices are the boots: shining Sullust-leather boots that gleam against the polished marble of the floor. She is sitting in a chair off to his right — calm, dangerous, waiting — and he stops suddenly, knowing instinctively that she is important: someone of status, someone of value, someone to have on his side if he can.

She is tall; her white-blonde hair is cropped short, and pressed grey military-style clothes, a trim jacket and trousers, cover her hulking frame. She stands, revealing herself to be even taller than Ren, and rakes her eyes over his attire, the faintest of frowns forming on her face after a moment of ominous silence.

Ren is unsure, suddenly, of how to behave. Meek, demure, poor: those are the overwhelming qualities that he has channelled into Ren of Theed, and he does not think that this woman —whoever she is — will find these attributes appealing.

He gazes implacably back at her, each word he wishes to utter clamped firmly behind closed lips.

Finally: “Sit.” The woman indicates the chair across from her, a lavish wooden table separating the two.

Ren does not move, holds her gaze for seconds — one, two, three — and then dips his head in submission and moves quietly into the seat.

“My name,” the woman says, settling into her own chair, her presence looming ever larger even as she sits, “is Phasma. I am captain of the Imperial Bodyguard. I have been sent here,” and the next words make her lips curl back in disgust, “to… _instruct_ you.”

From the tone of her voice, it’s clear she means _babysit,_ and isn’t happy about it. Ren bristles, but wisely holds his tongue.

“The emperor would like it to be known that you have free rein in the palace, but that there are rules: rules that must be followed without deviation,” Captain Phasma continues. “For you to break any of these rules would make the emperor very unhappy, and an unhappy emperor means unhappy advisors.” She glares at him. “You do not want me unhappy.”

Ren’s eyebrows arch: a question, a challenge — one that the captain clearly does not appreciate. Her scowl deepens.

“You will fall in line,” Phasma raps out sharply. “You will not approach the emperor unless requested or instructed to do so. You will not speak to the emperor unless spoken to first. You will always be available — no matter the hour — for anything the emperor should want. You will comply with all of the emperor's demands, no matter the cost. You will prepare yourself every morning and every night so as to always be ready for a summons. You will wear what has been given you, and you will be able to slip out of it in an instant, if this is what the emperor desires. These are the rules that have been laid out for you to follow.”

She stops and looks at him, waiting for an objection. Ren says nothing.

“In exchange for your obeisance, you will be provided with whatever you may desire.” She says this with distaste. “Ask and it shall be granted. You may go where you please, you may do with your free time what you please, you may meet whom you please, within limits; but always be ready.”

Ren nods, careful to suppress the excitement that is creeping over him. He had not dreamed that he would be this free, that he would be able to make his way through the halls of the palace unwatched and unguarded: hours to do with as he pleases, or as the mission requires.

“Have I made myself clear?” Phasma levels Ren with a cold stare.

“Perfectly, ma’am.”

“Good.”

She looks away from Ren, her eyes flashing to the comlink on her wrist as she taps it. The large doors leading into his chambers swing open moments later.

Service-droids enter, and two silver plates are laid before them on the table, eggs and cheeses and breads and meats piled atop them. Phasma ignores it all, pulling a datapad from beside her on the chair.

“This,” she says, “is a datapad,” and Ren knows this, of course he knows this, but he waits for her to continue. “I _assume_ you are not so poor as to have never handled one of these in your life?” She lays the device between them on the table and waits for Ren to pick it up and attempt to interact with it, obviously hoping to make him look like the fool it is increasingly clear she thinks him to be.

“We had one, where I worked, to keep track of the finances.” Ren says it innocently, a simple answer to a simple question. “I was rather adept at...modifying it to suit our needs.” He has turned the datapad on and is flipping through the screens, scanning the (few) icons at his disposal.

Phasma watches him with a critical eye. “Be that as it may, you most certainly have _not_ used something of this calibre. The Empire’s technologies far surpass those of the Core Worlds.” Ren is not sure this is true, but he holds his tongue. “If you were as _adept_ as you say, though, then you should have no issue navigating the operating system on your own.”

It’s a clear challenge, and, Ren finds, a welcome one. _Careful,_ he reminds himself. _Don’t give up the ruse._ He smiles. “I shall do my best.”

Phasma stands, her plate of food untouched on the table, clearly indifferent to anything that Ren may have wished to ask. Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “You will be permitted to access Arkanis’ intraplanetary HoloNet, and Arkanis’ only, with that pad. Should you feel the urge to send any communications off-planet, you will have to go through me.” Her teeth pull back over her lips, predatory.

She marches to the door, back stiff, and pauses, swinging around to face Ren again. Her next words are abrupt, unprecedented, and make very clear her opinion of him, in case he had been unsure before:

“Do not mistake the emperor's generosity for the emperor’s desire.”

The doors slam behind her with an incontrovertible bang. The food she’s left behind for him, when Ren tries it, feels like ash in his mouth.

*

The halls are emptier than Ren had expected. He has been wandering for more than an hour now, trying to configure a mental map of the surrounding rooms and corridors into something that may be of use to his mother. He is still in the west wing, the passages appearing one after another like clockwork, spaced identical intervals apart. The palace is a maze of stone and glass and metal, cast everywhere, by the wall-sconces, in tall, flickering shadows.

Brilliant tapestries grace the walls, depicting Emperor Hux I’s great conquering of worlds: blood and death and an army of stormtroopers sweeping across cities and whole planets like locusts, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. Surprisingly, considering the asceticism of Hux’s own quarters, in the more public parts of the palace, every few metres there is an urn, a lamp, a delicate ornament or statue upon a pedestal. These small, unexpected touches make Ren’s hair stand on end — so domestic, so like his own home, as if a tyrant did not hold dominion here.

“Do not touch that.”

Startled, Ren jerks back the hand he has thoughtlessly stretched out to a particularly interesting ceramic animal, a creature he has never seen before. The three tails are painted so realistically he half-expects the ornament to move.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes alighting on the stranger who has suddenly appeared down the corridor behind him. She is tall and slender, probably Ren’s mother’s age, but still very beautiful: coppery hair piled perfectly upon her head, long, flowing black dress rippling around her feet. Something about her instantly reminds Ren of home.

“Did your mother never teach you to leave others’ things alone?” The woman takes long, haughty strides down the hall toward him; he can hear a foreign accent in her voice. “That is very rare and very valuable.” Ren flushes. The woman looks at him more closely. “But I suppose she would not have, given the way you were raised.”

 _She’s been told about me._ Ren doesn’t know why he’s surprised. If this woman is anyone at court, as she certainly seems to be, she will have been told who he is, and why he is here. He, though, has not been afforded the same luxury. He clears his throat: “I am sorry, madam. I’m...not used to how things are done here, yet.” He pauses, trying to be delicate, and then asks sheepishly, “Have we been introduced?”

The woman does not smile, but her lips up pull slightly at the corners. “I am Ykara. And if you are going to survive here for any length of time, you will need help.” She spins on her heel and sashays down the hall. Ren, bewildered, does not move. “Are you coming?” Ykara calls over her shoulder, her voice barely raised but seeming to carry nonetheless. Ren hurries after her.

They wind down more halls and passages than Ren can keep track of, lefts and rights mixing together, until they come out before a wide, ancient-looking set of double doors. They are made of wood, and not metal, as the others in the palace. When Ykara thumbs the scanner they swing wide, letting the two enter without interruption — and ushering them into what might as well be another world.

Ren fights not to gape as he looks around. He could have stepped into a parlour in the palace in Theed. Tall viewports line the back wall, letting in what little sunshine this planet has to offer. The other walls are papered green, with pink and yellow floral designs; a marble fireplace, like the one in Ren’s own room, dominates one corner. A low table is set between two divans and two chairs. Ren half-expects his mother to emerge from the door that leads to an adjoining room, so similar is this space to the palace of his childhood.

“This is my sitting-room,” Ykara says dismissively, settling onto one of the divans. “Sit,” she bids him. “Will you take tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” Ren does not care for the drink — he prefers caf, or chocolate — but he dares not refuse; something tells him Ykara would not take it kindly. Hesitantly, he takes a seat on the upright, stiff-backed sofa across from hers. It is upholstered in a pale-yellow damask, glittering here and there with golden thread: Ren recognises it as being an antique of Naboo design, the fabric’s floral pattern echoed in the carvings that adorn the piece’s back and legs. He smiles, finding succour in this unexpected remnant of home.

Ykara takes up a miniature golden bell — also clearly an antique, so out-of-place here in this self-proclaimed temple of technology, modernity — and rings for a droid. In no time, one appears from the adjoining room, apparently a kitchen or pantry, with a silver cart. On the cart rests a curiously tall, ornately-inlaid urn or teapot with a spigot and two curling handles, perched upon a little footed stand. Also present are two small glasses, a number of matching porcelain dishes holding an assortment of biscuits and candied fruits, as well as a creamer and two white bowls, one full of bright-red jam and the other of sugar-cubes. A tiny silver spoon rests in the one, an equally tiny pair of tongs in the other.

Ren is duly impressed by the spread — thoroughly exotic, meticulously crafted — and he tells Ykara so: “This is lovely.”

Ykara hums in response, inclining her head as if to say, _I know_. She takes a seat across from him, opens the spigot on the tea-urn, and fills a glass for each of them. Ren accepts it, blowing on the steaming tea before he drinks; it’s dark and bitter, and he reaches for the sugar. Ykara adds healthy doses of cream and jam to her own glass, and takes a sip before beginning what Ren has guessed correctly to be an interrogation, a sizing-up of sorts:

“Well, child, how do you find life in the palace?”

Ren hesitates. He does not know whether what he says here will be reported back to Hux, or, worse, to Captain Phasma; but he glances again at the yellow damask, and feels comforted, somehow. He decides to be honest — or, at least, true to _Ren._

“I am daunted,” he admits, wrapping both hands around his glass of tea. “I’ve never lived in a court before, of course, and it’s — very different than I expected. And so is he.” He gives a slight, self-conscious smile: “Although I don’t know, really, how I expected him to be.” _This, at least, is true._

Ykara lifts her chin, understanding. “Yes. Even if you had lived at another court before, I think you would still find this one unusual…and the prince, too, of course. A singular man.”

“He seems…” _Shrewd. Calculating. Cold._ “Reserved.”

Ykara nods. There is an almost mocking gleam in her eye when she says, “He is not an easy man to warm to, nor does he warm to others with ease. You, child, have a difficult task ahead of you.”

“I can sense that already.” _More difficult than she knows._ Ren bows his head to sip his drink.

“You have met Captain Phasma, I presume?” Ykara asks, reaching for a candied fruit from the plate.

Ren nods. “I was introduced this morning. I don’t think she likes me too well.” He bites into a delicate, sugar-dusted biscuit. “Do you know…why?” he asks, masking his real curiosity behind a tone of slight shame. “Have I done something wrong already?”

Ykara makes a dismissive gesture with one well-manicured hand. “If you are looking to be liked, you had best not go to the captain, of all people. You may have trespassed in some way, or you may not; she would be cold to you regardless.”

There is a subtle stress on _you_ that makes something click in Ren’s head. “Is she — jealous?” he asks, startled.

Ykara laughs. “Of your being the emperor’s toy? _Never,”_ she says staunchly, and laughs again; Ren flushes, embarrassed to have already made a misstep. “Things are not like that between them. They never have been. They have been close since childhood — as I understand, they were both misfits at the Academy, and grew up with only each other as friends. She protected him through his schooldays, and so of course, once they’d finished their schooling, the prince offered her a place in his personal guard. But there has never been anything more between them than loyalty and respect — although those bonds, too, are fierce, and should not be tested.”

Ren understands the warning. He nods, but says nothing.

“Besides,” Ykara adds, “the captain has a lover of her own; a girl in the household staff, I believe.”

Ren is taken aback by this. He can hardly imagine Phasma dropping her haughty veneer long enough to _befriend_ anyone, much less to take a lover; but at the same time he is reassured, for perhaps if she is occupied with an affair of her own, she will keep out of Ren and the emperor’s.

“And now the emperor has you,” Ykara continues. She smiles at him, a cool glittering smile. “And who are you, Ren of Theed?” she asks in that cultivated accent, the provenance of which Ren still cannot place. “Why has he chosen _you?”_

Her directness throws him off his guard. How different this is than the obscurely layered, cloyingly polite court banter to be heard on Naboo — a language in which even his royal upbringing has failed to make him fluent. Ykara’s frank speech is refreshing, and he is glad of it; but, scrambling to recall his invented history, Ren still stammers when he says, “I — I’m just a whore, madam. In truth I don’t know what set me apart from the rest.”

Ykara raises her eyebrows at this, setting down her glass with a _clink_. “Well, there must be _something.”_ Her eyes flick over his body in frank appraisal — approval; she meets his eyes and gives a little smirk, and Ren surprises himself by smiling back, ducking his head. “But I know the prince.” (Ren marks this, the refusal, whether conscious or not, to call Hux by his present title.) “And I know that he would not choose a lover for his body alone. There must be something else that drew him to you.”

Ren blinks. As far as he can tell, choosing a lover based on his body is precisely what Hux has done — and luckily too, he thinks. Even having known him for such a short time, Ren can already tell that he would not have attained his place here if he’d had to pass an _interview_ with the emperor, instead of being chosen in the way that he was. But if Ykara thinks there’s something else…

“I don’t know, madam,” he answers truthfully. “I hardly know him yet. I — I do think I will be able to please him” — he flushes at the thought, still so desperately nervous despite himself, and sees the flicker of amusement on Ykara’s face — “but if he had any other reason for choosing me, he has not made it clear.”

Ykara gives a delicate, one-shouldered shrug. “Well. It is early, yet. If you do well you will come to know him; perhaps one day you will see.” She takes up her glass and sips at her tea.

Ren understands that the subject is closed. Attuned as he is to the manners and whims of ladies at court, he understands too that she is waiting to be asked about herself; so gallantly he complies. “And you? Who are you?” he asks lightly, throwing her own question back to her. “How did you come to find a place in this court?”

He was correct. Lifting her chin just slightly, Ykara gives an expressive sigh, wrapping both bony-fingered, blue-veined, beringed hands around her glass. “I was older than you when I came here,” she begins, with an air of theatrical mystery.

“The emperor had just won his throne — I’m sure you know the story, and if by chance you didn’t before you came here, the whole palace will tell you.” Ykara rolls her eyes, gestures to the elaborate tapestries on the walls, which do, as all the others, indeed recount that event.

“The planet had had a monarchy before, but under Brendol it became an empire. The court was rearranged; the old noble titles were redistributed among those who had helped him win the war; and, after the sudden death of the Lady Maratelle, the position of empress remained… _glaringly_ empty. But everything was new, now — everything was different — none of the old rules applied anymore.” Ykara cocks her head, gives her gilt smile: “Can you guess what happened next, child?”

Ren suddenly understands. _She’s the old emperor’s favourite._ He has heard tales of Brendol Hux’s mistress, but had assumed she left the court and returned home upon his death; evidently, this is not the case. _And her black dress —_ she still wears mourning for him, as Ren had for his father. But Ren knows that after the old emperor’s death, Hux had ordered the court _not_ to observe an official period of grieving, and wonders what he thinks of Ykara’s disobedience.

 “Grief-stricken after the death of his wife, Hux’s father didn’t want to marry again…but he didn’t want to be alone, either,” Ren guesses. “Hence the search, and hence you?”

“Well, he didn’t grieve for his _wife,”_   Ykara murmurs, smiling to herself. Ren frowns, confused, but she does not explain further — only looks at him, her eyes sharp and bright, and nods. “But yes. He needed the loyalty of a companion devoted only to him — as well as a diversion, of course, for what man does not…But what he most wanted was for someone to _need_ him. To rely on him only, for raising them from the mire. He wanted someone _beholden.”_ She raises her eyebrows, again with that wise little tilt to her mouth. “He found me.”

“What beheld you to him, then?” Ren is fascinated by the tale unfolding before him. He recognises all too clearly the echoes of Hux’s father’s choices in his son’s, and grasps tight to the insights Ykara’s revelations are already providing him into his own position — what his own future here might hold.

“My homeworld was once a protected planet, a legacy world,” Ykara tells him, settling in to what Ren can tell will be a grand narrative. “It used to be a natural marvel, an earthly paradise; the jewel of the Western Reaches, to be sure. Tourists, scientists, aesthetes flocked from all over the galaxy to visit, for one reason or another. We lived simple, pastoral lives, like something from a bygone age, and as political tensions increased throughout the galaxy and, eventually, civil war broke out, such a bucolic retreat became irresistible.

“But when I was a young woman, the First Empire came. Palpatine ordered our resources to be seized in the name of science and progress. My beautiful planet was drained of its doonium and dolovite, and the mining was devastating. Gone were our sprawling fields, our clear blue skies; our cold fresh springs turned black with pollution, and smoke and poison filled the air. Our people began to evacuate en masse, or at least those who could afford to — for despite our natural riches, we, the people, were never so well-off…”

She gives a sigh, here, pressing one hand to her eyes, and then continues, her accented voice throaty with emotion: “My parents sent me off-planet. I was their only child, and they used all the credits they had saved to secure me a place on a transport to Naboo. I arrived in the capital on my nineteenth name-day; I never saw them again. I lost my planet and my family in the name of the Empire, and of that cursed weapon — Palpatine’s Death Star.”

She speaks with a long-held bitterness. Ren is captivated: his tea has grown cold in his hand as he listens. “But you came to serve the New Empire,” he says, when Ykara pauses to sip deeply from her own glass. “How? How did you end up here?” He is no longer asking out of mere politeness, but from a place of true curiosity and deep, genuine sympathy, the roots of which he cannot grasp or name.

“I was alone in a strange city, on a planet nothing like my own. I had never left my homeworld; I knew nothing of life beyond its atmosphere. But I learned quickly.” Ykara gives a wry smile: “I am sure _you_ know, boy, how Mother Theed raises lost children.” She shrugs. “I sold my body, same as you. I was good at it. I earned enough to stay alive, and then, soon, much, much more. I grew to love the city; Theed became my home, and I learned to forget that I had ever had another. I found a place in a renowned pleasure-house, and I stayed there for years, grew settled; and then one day the new emperor’s scouts came searching. I saw my chance. I took it.”

“You didn’t have to fight any longer,” Ren murmurs, imagining her struggles.

But Ykara laughs, at this: “There, child, you are very much mistaken. In this court I have had to fight harder for my place, for my life, than anywhere on the streets of Theed. In this court I fight still, to this day — harder than ever, now that he is gone.” She sets down her glass, emptied, and dabs at her lips. “You will have to fight, too, Ren of Theed. The prince is slow to give his grace and quick to take it away.

“I can teach you,” she adds unexpectedly; “I can help to ease your way — but if you want to survive here, remember that, in the end, you are on your own. The Arkanisians do not take kindly to outsiders, but they are loyal to their emperor above all things; they will accept even his most…unusual whims, with time.” Ykara levels him with an iron blue-gray gaze. “Win his favour. _Keep_ his favour. That is how you will survive.”

Ren meets her gaze and holds it. _If only she knew,_ he thinks, _how much more perilous my situation really is._ “I thank you for your counsel,” he says, coolly but sincerely. “And for the tea. I do hope — I do hope we can meet again like this,” he adds, without planning to. “Even if it is as you say, and I’ll have to rely only on myself to keep my place, I would very much like to have you on my side.” He smiles.

She returns it, looking down the bridge of her stately, prominent nose at him. “I like you, child,” Ykara pronounces. “Your face — I can read everything that you’re thinking, in those eyes of yours. Honest eyes.”

Ren gives a bland, innocent, courtier’s smile. _If only, if only, if only she knew._ He ducks his head, modest: “I am an honest man.”

Ykara stands, and Ren stands with her, ever-conscious of his etiquette. Ykara smooths down her waterfalling skirts — she dresses, Ren notes, like a relic from a bygone age herself, like the princess of some ancient kingdom; _perhaps she misses her old home, even now —_ and rings for the droid to clear the tea-things. She goes to the door, and Ren, understanding that he is dismissed, quickly follows.

On the threshold, she holds out her hand, and Ren takes it up to kiss it. “You may join me for tea again tomorrow,” Ykara tells him: less an invitation than a command. Ren imagines that while Hux picked this manner up from his father, it had been Ykara’s way even before she came here.

“Thank you, madam,” Ren says, bowing to her. _A foothold._

Ykara _tsk_ s, and says, “Child, I am not so old as that. I am Ykara to you.”

Ren smiles. His foothold solidifies. “Tomorrow, then, Ykara.”

“Tomorrow, Ren of Theed.” She is smiling as she closes the door behind him.

*

Ren decides to spend the rest of the afternoon in his own rooms. He does not feel like exploring any more; he has, quite fortuitously, established a contact already, and decides that this is enough for his first day.

He slips back into his bedchamber, counting himself lucky not to encounter Captain Phasma along the way. Not having much else at his disposal, he sits down with his datapad for a while, and quickly exhausts the limited resources available to him on Arkanis’ intranet. He then opens one of the novels preloaded onto the pad, but finds it almost at once to be dry and thoroughly propagandistic; he sighs, though, and carries on, reading with amused incredulity about the struggles and imperialistic dreams of a transparently fictional Arkanisian soldier. _Frelix was always the most skilled of his class at the Academy, but none who knew him then could ever have dreamed that one day he would rule them all…_

When he is just beginning to grow bored, he hears a knock at the door, and opens it to find a petite, dark-haired woman; she introduces herself as the mistress of the wardrobe, and inquires as to how his clothes are fitting. His measurements, apparently, were taken during that long flurry of tests and scans and searches upon his arrival and selection, though he has no recollection of this.

“Everything fits well,” Ren answers the woman, who looks expectantly up at him from at least a foot below. “It’s lovely, besides. Thank you.”

She nods briskly and disappears, leaving him alone and bored again. Lacking the desire or inspiration to do anything else, and loath to return to the trials and tribulations of Frelix (now, quite pompously, in command of his very own Star Destroyer), Ren climbs into bed and takes a long nap, relieved to stave off some of the lingering time-lag from his journey.

When he awakes, later, the light outside his bedroom viewports has changed. The cloudy sky is shadowing: the dark comes early here. Ren realises that he has not been given an official time-table or daily schedule, and wonders, briefly panicked, if he has missed supper, imagining Hux’s displeasure if he has. He reaches for his datapad, resting on the bedside table, to check the time, and is relieved to find a message there, from Phasma.

_Supper is served in the great hall at 1900 hours. Do not be tardy._

It’s just gone 1800 now. Ren is relieved. Slowly, he drags himself from bed, reluctantly abandoning the warmth of the covers and furs for the chilly air of his bedroom. He wonders if someone will be sent to dress him, but doubts it; the Arkanisians, he can already tell, do not partake in luxuries unless they have been duly earned. It is no matter — he has not had a personal servant for years. He goes to the wardrobe and opens it, stares down his choices.

He was far too cold, yesterday, in the fanciful, revealing courtesan’s garb they had chosen for him, and had felt mildly ridiculous besides. It served its purpose then — he is here, after all — but he decides that he does not need to wear it again now. Ren searches through the rows of clothing, the wardrobe full to bursting; pulls out long, heavy, brocade robes covered in embroidery, nearly tapestries in themselves; thinner, lighter clothing similar to yesterday’s, which he pushes aside straightaway; fur-lined and waterproof winter cloaks and coats, foreign to Naboo and obviously having been supplemented by someone here, perhaps the forward-thinking wardrobe mistress. But none of this seems right.

Finally, his fingers alight on a tunic of fine, dove-grey watered silk. A moment’s digging produces a pair of darker trousers to match, more structured than those of the day before, but still draped attractively in the free-flowing, naturalistic style of Naboo. Ren examines his choices with satisfaction, and finds, in short order, fresh undergarments, a pair of soft-soled black slippers, and a delicate silver chain, the twin of yesterday’s gold, for his hair. _All this will do._

He goes to the refresher, strips off his day-clothes, and washes his face (and, quickly, between his legs) before dressing in the new clothing. He surveys himself in the mirror, arranging his hair with the chain; he considers making up his face in traditional Nabooian style, but quickly rejects the idea. He has never done it before, and the outlandish look takes skill to achieve; he would run the risk of looking clownish, absurd; _and that is not how I should be presented to the court. That is not how I should look when I first go to him._

Ren meets his own eyes in the mirror and takes a deep breath. He will go to him, tonight: he can feel it. He still has no idea what to expect, even in the wake of Ykara’s enlightening conversation, and reaches out with the Force to quell the sudden nervousness that bubbles in his chest. _He has chosen me,_ he reminds himself; _there must be a reason for that. And I am here to serve him. I’ll do what he asks and all will be well._

(He still wishes he had any idea what, indeed, Hux might ask of him.)

The chrono reads 1849. Ren reaches for a bottle of scent, applies a little — the fragrance that wafts up is of sandalwood and sun — and breathes in deeply. He steels himself and leaves the refresher, and then his quarters, and makes his way to the great hall. His work has begun.

The hall is already full when he gets there. He wonders if he ought to have come sooner — although he hopes Phasma would have told him if this were the case — but then he sees that the emperor’s seat, at the high table on the dais at the back of the hall, is still empty. The seat to its right is, too.

Ren makes his way between the long stone tables, their seats occupied by imperial courtiers dressed mostly in shades of grey, deep blue, and black (these are uniforms, though, not mourning clothes), and feels that at least he has chosen appropriate dress. As he passes each table, he hears conversations — already subdued — grow quieter still, and feels stares on his back. Through the Force he catches fleeting impressions:

_So there’s the whore._

_Foreign slut._

_Can’t have been chosen for his looks._

He wills himself not to duck his head or blush with shame as these thoughts are revealed to him. He looks into the face of one older woman who is scowling at him —  _The emperor should be searching for a high-born wife, not dallying with common boys —_ and smiles, graciously, at her. She looks quickly away and sniffs, offended.

Soon he reaches the high table. Scanning the faces of those seated there — all the spots but those two in the middle are full — he is surprised to find neither Phasma nor Ykara. He would have assumed that their positions were such as to allow them to be seated with the inner circle, but apparently he is mistaken — on one count, at least.

For almost as soon as he has made his way to the seat he assumes is his (carefully edging behind the other chairs, murmuring apologies to the courtiers already seated there, who maintain a stony silence and pierce him with their glares), a different set of doors than the ones through which he entered is thrown open. Ren glances over — but his view is quickly obscured by the tide of bodies that stand, now, from their chairs.

He scrambles to his feet as well, and, craning his neck over the crowd, sees Hux striding through the east doors, trailed closely by Phasma. The emperor wears, again, a military uniform, with a thin circlet-crown glimmering subtly at his temples. His gaze sweeps over the hall as he makes his way to the table, taking in his people’s homage without acknowledgment or gratitude: accepting what is due him. He looks up, and his eyes find Ren, and he inclines his chin slightly. He has not erred yet, then.

Hux climbs the steps of the dais, his boot-heels clicking loudly. Before he gets to the table, Ren pulls out his chair for him, and then steps to the side as the emperor passes. He bows his head. “Good evening, sir,” he says respectfully, breaking the silence.

“Thank you, Ren of Theed,” Hux says. “You may be seated.”

This command goes for all the court. There is a flurry (albeit a brief, practically choreographed one) of chairs scraping across the floor, the rustling of clothing, coughs and murmurs, as the courtiers re-take their seats, Ren included. He folds his hands in his lap, knowing better than to try and engage Hux in conversation unless he is spoken to first.

The first course appears as if by magic, brought out by a seamless and silent cohort of service droids, almost as soon as Hux has seated himself and taken off his leather gloves, finger by finger, to lay them beside his plate. Ren glances around — Phasma has disappeared — and finds her and another of her Bodyguard stationed at the east doors, another two at the west. This explains her missing seat at the table, but not Ykara’s. Ren wonders if it pains Hux to have a reminder of his father present, in the flesh; or if perhaps there is something else, more to the story that Ren does not yet know. _I’ll learn. I need to know it all._

He picks up his soup spoon and dips it in the bowl that is set before him. The broth is creamy-white, thin and fragrant, and chunks of clam, fish, and bright sea-vegetables float in it. Ren tries a spoonful and finds it light, well-salted, and delicious. He picks up the piece of thick, hearty bread that has been provided as accompaniment, tears off a hunk, and then thinks better of dipping it in his bowl, eating it in small bites instead. Wine has been poured for him, and quickly he reaches for it, embarrassed.

Luckily, although his courtiers’ glances come to rest, disapproving or curious, on Ren before flicking away, Hux has as yet paid him no mind. As they tuck into their food, he has turned to the man seated on his other side — dressed in uniform also, the insignia on his sleeve marking him an admiral — and is deep in conversation with him. The chatter in the hall has resumed, masking the emperor’s words from the rest of the court, but Ren is close enough to hear.

He catches the words _training, fleet,_ and _unsatisfactory progress._ He doubted that the emperor would be so foolish as to discuss Starkiller — whatever it is; if it _is_ as important as the Resistance believes it to be — at table, but is disappointed by this mundane conversation all the same. If, as it appears, Hux will not be speaking with him, and if Ykara is not present, either, then suppers on Arkanis will prove to be less than entertaining for Ren.

 _Don’t be selfish. This is your chance to observe,_ he reminds himself, as the first course is cleared (Ren’s bowl is scraped clean) and replaced with the second, a seared silver fish on obsidian plates, accompanied by bitter greens and a dark, peppery sauce. But just as Ren is resigning himself to a long evening spent in silence, so different from the lively court dinners he is used to at home, the emperor turns to him.

“Good evening, Ren,” Hux says cordially, setting down his glass of wine to be refilled by a hovering droid. “Are you enjoying your meal?”

Ren hurries to finish chewing his bite of fish. He is accustomed to a richer, more rarefied cuisine on Naboo, but still finds this simpler fare appealing. He tells Hux so, smiling, surprised to be spoken to after all: “Yes, sir. It’s not quite what I’m used to, but it’s very good.”

“Good,” Hux says, offering a distant but polite smile in return. He glances down at Ren’s plate for the barest second, and Ren feels a note of triumph to have used, of course, the correct utensils. “Already you’re settling in. How was your first day of court life?”

“Interesting,” Ren answers truthfully. “I met Captain Phasma. She briefed me…very helpfully on the palace’s routines.”

“As I hoped she would,” Hux acknowledges, nodding. “Did you find your way around well enough? You didn’t get lost?”

“No, sir. I explored a little, but didn’t go farther than the west wing. I was most impressed,” Ren adds, trying to look as wide-eyed and naïve as he can. “The palace is beautiful. So…striking. Something straight out of the First Empire’s heyday.”

Hux looks pleased, at this. “My father designed it that way. I did not agree with all his decisions, but in the realm of aesthetic preference we rarely differed.” He slices off a piece of fish and chews it neatly, washing it down with a sip of wine.

Ren takes a forkful of greens and tries to think of something more to say. He is about to make some bland comment about architecture or art (making sure to sound sweetly ill-informed on both subjects), but before he can speak, Hux’s attention is caught by another courtier across the table. He leans over to answer her question, and Ren turns back to his food. At least he has been acknowledged: the subtly-judging stares seem to have subsided, now that Hux has been seen to speak with him, to treat him as any other at the table. He still wishes Ykara were here: one ally, however newfound, in this sea of strangers.

The rest of the dinner passes quickly. The black plates are cleared, and dessert brought out: Ren had been expecting more courses, but reasons that this is only a regular supper, not a formal affair. He is glad of the shortened meal; he is having little luck with his eavesdropping — even using the Force, he is mostly only gleaning gossip, grumbles, and other verbal chaff of little use to the mission — and will be glad to stop trying to listen to every conversation.

_After supper, though, he will want me._

And indeed, as the dessert course draws to a close, the soft hum of talk in the hall begins to quieten further still. Hux — engaged now in a low, serious conversation with the senator from Aaris and some others — is oblivious, but Ren hears the other tables’ subdued voices fall to whispers, and feels the eyes of the courtiers all come to rest on him again. They are waiting, and Ren knows exactly for what. He lays down his shell-handled fork and pushes his half-eaten dessert away; he drinks deep of his wine to steady his nerves, and he waits.

Now at last his waiting is over. Hux’s conversation ends solemnly, and the emperor leans back in his chair; finishes the last bite of his torte, takes the last sip of his wine. Ren watches him. The court watches them both. And then Hux, aware of their gazes, acting in accordance, rises from his seat.

Any remaining noise in the hall is silenced at once. The emperor’s chair scrapes across the floor as he stands.

“The hour grows late,” Hux announces. Now that he is speaking to the court, on show, the cautious politesse he’d shown to Ren previously is replaced by a distinct and aloof coolness. Ren marks this change, and files it away for future thought. “I am tired, and would take my leave of you all.”

Hux pauses, almost regretful. And then he extends a gloved hand in Ren’s direction, as practised and confident as an actor upon the stage. “Ren of Theed,” he says, as though the thought has just occurred to him, “will you retire with me?”

Ren swallows. The eyes of all the court are on him. He stands, trying to move with assurance, although his heart beats a rapid tattoo against his breast. “Yes, Majesty,” he says, his voice ringing out in the silence. “If that is what my lord desires.” He bows his head in deference, the thin chains in his hair clinking musically together.

A murmur rises up from the court; Ren doubts, but still hopes, they like what they have seen. He waits, eyes fixed down, not daring to move until given permission.

“It is,” Hux affirms. Ren looks up through his hair and sees a haughty smile on the emperor’s face, his chin tilted. “Come now, Ren. With me.”

Ren moves from his chair and goes to Hux’s side, takes the gloved hand offered him. There is a glint like steel in Hux’s eyes; he nods, just slightly, to Ren, to show him he has done well. And then he gives a brief, shallow bow to his court: “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Majesty,” comes the collective murmur as Hux grasps Ren’s arm and leads him, firmly, from the room. Hux’s head stays high as they proceed from the great hall into the dim corridors of the palace, lit only by the lambent glow of the sconces and the occasional blue flash of lightning from outside. His grip on Ren’s arm is strong, but he relaxes it slightly once they are alone. Ren forces himself to breathe.

“You were good, tonight,” Hux comments, as they stride through the corridors in the direction of his chambers. “Your manners are better than I had expected.”

 “The brothel madam taught us, my lord,” Ren lies smoothly. “She used to be a maid at the royal palace in Theed; she knew all the proper etiquette. She instructed all of us, thinking it may come in handy one day.” He gives a little, knowing smile.

“And so it has.” Hux nods, seeming pleased. “Good. Phasma will have less to teach you than we’d thought. You seemed almost comfortable at table with ladies and lords — far better than expected, from an urchin brothel-boy,” he repeats.

“Yes, my lord,” Ren answers humbly. “Thank you, my lord.”

They traverse the emperor’s chambers until they reach that sanctum, his bedroom. Hux motions Ren inside; the door shuts behind the emperor and he locks it with the fingerprint scanner. “We won’t be disturbed,” he tells Ren, and this should comfort him. “Lights, twenty-five percent.”

The automated lighting system obeys his command, and the lights lower gently, casting the barest dim glow: intimate. The fireplace has already been lit, by some droid or footman, and crackles loudly in the hearth.

Hux turns to Ren: the first time he has looked him in the eyes all evening. Ren had almost forgotten the piercing power of his sea-green gaze, the way it rakes over him with a force as sharp as nails. He swallows.

“So,” Hux says, and his voice is low and cool. “Ren of Theed. My brothel-boy. My dancer. What skills have you, besides dancing?”

Ren opens his mouth to reply — they have fabricated skills for him, of course, in the arts of love and pleasure — but Hux holds up a finger. “I would have you show me.”

Silently, Ren takes a breath. He has passed the scans and searches and selections, but now comes the real test: will he please the emperor?

He nods. “Of course, my lord. What would you desire of me tonight?”

Hux looks him up and down. He gives a curt gesture with one gloved hand. “I would…see you, Ren.”

Ren understands. He turns around, as if his modesty matters here, matters now.

His fingers fumble with the fastenings of his trousers, with his silk tunic and belt. He shucks his clothing and turns to face Hux again, slowly, hoping he’ll like what he sees.

He does.

His eyes travel the length of Ren’s naked form, alighting on the toned muscles of his chest, his arms, his abdomen; lingering on the dark hair at his navel and following its line lower. His gaze skims his hips, his legs, and when he motions for Ren to turn around, he can feel it taking in his buttocks and his muscled back as well. “Pretty thing,” Hux murmurs. He is satisfied: Ren feels it, in the Force.

Ren turns back around to face him. He raises his head, meets Hux’s eyes, and waits to be told what to do.

Hux says, “On the bed.”

Ren obeys. He takes a seat with his back against the headboard, shy at first, but then letting his knees drop open slightly. He’s unsure what Hux wants, where he will go — he stays still, and waits for further instruction.

Hux does not join him in the great imperial bed. Instead he takes a seat in a stiff-backed upholstered chair that sits at the footboard: precisely in the centre, directly across from where Ren now sits. Ren wonders if it wasn’t placed there for exactly this purpose, whatever it might turn out to be; already that would not surprise him.

Hux sits, and plants his booted feet hip-width apart on the floor, and does not make to undress himself or unfasten his clothes or even remove his evening jacket. Instead, he nods to Ren, and says simply, “Show me.” His eyes glint. “Put on a show for me.”

Ren can do nothing but obey.

He spreads his legs wider, and reaches down to take himself in hand. To his surprise he’s half-hard already. Slowly, hesitant, he begins to stroke his cock, just as he would if he were alone — but he’s self-conscious, unable to tell exactly what Hux he wants of him. He’s aware that this reticence is a breach of his character: _The first night, and already you’re stumbling._

A long moment passes. He strokes faster, circles the slit of his cock with the pad of his thumb, but still he cannot bring himself any harder; he cannot put on the show that Hux wants.

The emperor’s face is a mask. Ren can sense, though, a hint of irritation radiating from him through the Force, and he knows this will not do. He winces. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but for now, at least, he sees no other option.

Hux frowns, just slightly, when Ren goes still again: Ren, before he can further displease him, reaches out with the Force to placate him. He senses Hux’s impatience (growing), and before it can further increase, he soothes it; he senses the barest tendrils of arousal beginning to sneak into the corner of his mind, and he coaxes them further. _He must be receptive, he must like what he sees, or this will all have been for naught._

But if he meddles too much Hux will begin to notice, and then Ren’s game will be up. He retreats.

Hux, in his chair, gives a long exhale. “Go on, Ren,” he says, and his voice has softened now, gone liquid, silken. “Don’t be shy.” The words are less a comfort, more an order.

Ren wraps his hand round his cock and starts again. He strokes long and slow from base to tip, rolling his hips into the movements. He still cannot tell if it is working: Hux has given no sign of approval or distaste.

He speeds up his strokes, letting his legs fall fully open to expose himself entirely, his cock now standing to attention amid the wiry hair between his thighs. He lets a few soft noises escape his throat, little groans and hums of pleasure, closing his eyes and parting his lips just so. He knows he is handsome like this, knows he is desirable: he has been told so, in the past.

And still Hux’s face remains indifferent. But Ren glances at him through half-lidded eyes, his hand still working on his cock, and sees that the emperor’s trousers are tented, telltale, even if his expression has not changed. Ren is encouraged. Emboldened, he lifts his other hand to his chest and pinches at his bare nipples, lets out an “Oh” at the touch. This is beginning to feel less like acting, now: he is starting to enjoy himself.

He picks up his pace, bracing back against the headboard as he tilts his hips and fucks into his hand, his eyes falling shut again of their own accord and his neck arching back. _I can do this,_ he thinks. _If this is what he wants of me then I will serve him well, and gratefully._ He moans.

Hux is biting his lip. Ren, his cock sliding easy in his hand, locks eyes with him as he strokes faster, harder, his body tensing in readiness; he half-expects Hux to stop him, or else to stand up and finish him off himself, but the emperor does not move, except to shift slightly in his seat.

Forgetting himself — his mission — for a moment, suddenly unrestrained, Ren imagines climbing into his lap, straddling his slim hips and rutting against him until he comes, spilling white and defiling Hux’s crisp uniform. _I want to break him. I want to make him feel something._

It’s this that brings him over the edge: the thought of shattering the façade, spoiling —  _de_ spoiling — the aristocratic statue who sits in front of him now. With one last thrust into his fist, Ren comes, giving a cry as he spills over his hand. His head thumps back to hit the headboard, eyes closed in sudden, unexpected pleasure.

When he opens his eyes again and sits up, heart pounding, looking around for somewhere to wipe his filthy hand — suddenly ashamed of his thoughts, which seem, even for his mission’s purpose, to have crossed some line — the emperor is staring at him. Ren catches his gaze and says, still breathless, trying to sound flirtatious, “Was that to your liking, my lord?”

“You did well,” Hux says. His tone is clipped. Ren is afraid, all at once, that he has displeased him after all, that despite his body’s reactions Hux did not truly find him appealing. If he has failed in this most important task — if he cannot please the emperor here — then their mission has no hope.

“Shall I touch you now, my lord?” Ren blurts out clumsily.

The emperor is still aroused: Ren can sense it on him, and see, still, the hardness between his legs. This, he thinks almost hysterically, will be how he redeems himself for whatever wrong he has already done: on his back, or on his knees, or however else Hux may want him. He will do, he must do — he has _agreed_ to do — anything, to gain this man’s approval and his trust, for the good of the mission and the Resistance.

He waits anxiously to hear Hux’s pleasure, utterly clueless as to what it might be, what more the emperor wishes than to see him please himself…but Hux shakes his head.

“That was enough,” the emperor tells him, still blunt. “You may go.”

Ren’s heart sinks. _He is sending me away. I have failed, we are lost._ “My lord, I am sorry —” he begins, but the emperor speaks again.

“For tonight, Ren,” Hux says, as if reading his thoughts. “Enough for tonight. I am not upset with you; only tired.” He tilts his chin up. “You can find your way to your rooms, I trust?”

Ren is relieved. “Yes, sir,” he answers, bowing his head. Awkwardly, he rises, wishing to cover his nakedness, the mess between his legs and on his fingers: he is suddenly aware of the emperor’s full state of dress. _His neat uniform, and what I thought of it._ His cock hangs limp, sticky and spent; he hesitates.

Hux notices, and gestures to the refresher: “You may clean yourself.”

Ren bobs his head gratefully and hurries to do so. When he has finished and he comes back out, the emperor is still seated in his chair with his feet firmly planted, staring down at the floor between them. There is a slight frown on his face. Ren gives a small cough to alert him to his presence, and Hux looks up at once.

“Good,” he says crisply, his brow smoothing, his face neutral once again. “Dress, and go.”

Ren obeys, collecting his scattered evening clothes and dressing in a hurry. At the door, he dips a deep bow to the emperor: “Goodnight, sir,” he says respectfully.

“Goodnight, Ren.”

The door clicks softly shut behind him.

In the corridor, Ren leans against the wall, sags into it, and breathes. He is exhausted. He should not be — these exertions were no more than he is used to, beneath the sheets of his own bed in the palace, or at some pleasure-house in Theed, where he was not the goods but the buyer — but something about the emperor’s unyielding, unrevealing gaze on him as he touched himself, his near-complete lack of response, put Ren on edge, made him work all the harder.

He is tired, but he thinks that he is safe — for now.

Through a high window in the hall, he can see the planet’s moons, small and waxy in the cloudy night sky. He makes to carry on down the corridor to his rooms; but then he hears a soft noise from inside the emperor’s suite, and he stops in his tracks.

Ren approaches the door again, and puts his ear to it. It is faint, what he has heard, but the palace is quiet, this wing deserted, the court and the staff all still at supper. Ren listens hard, and hears the emperor taking his own pleasure at last.

He can hear — slow at first, growing faster — the soft sound of skin on skin, and imagines, then, Hux plucking off his gloves, reaching to unfasten his trousers and take himself in his bare hand. He hears a sigh, a bitten-off groan. He can picture Hux’s eyes closing, his proud head tilting back as he touches himself with scarce-restrained ardour. _So he wanted me, after all, even if he would not have me touch him._ Ren is reassured, more than he can say: more than he should be.

It does not take very long. The emperor exhales a long _ahh_ when he comes: the sweetest sound Ren has ever heard, for it means he is safe, he has done what is needed. _He liked me. He likes me._ He imagines Hux shuddering through the aftershocks, his eyes fluttering open, his face flushed; and then collecting himself, cleaning up and stripping down, turning out the lights with a curtly-worded command and climbing into that great cold bed, alone.

Ren wonders if his own scent still lingers on the sheets, perhaps the remnants of his pleasure. He wonders if Hux would notice — what he would think.

He smiles, again, and continues down the hall to his own room. He falls asleep fully clothed the moment his head touches the pillow.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you caught the space-Russian-tea-service pun re: Ykara's homeworld, _do_ let us know. ;)
> 
> Find us on Tumblr [here](http://huxes.tumblr.com) and [here](http://redcap64.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

*

Ren is awoken next morning by a knock on his door. He opens his eyes, still half-dreaming, and thinks perhaps he’d imagined the sound, so faint it was; and then it comes again, accompanied by a timid call of his name: “Master Ren?”

Ren sits up, and calls gruffly, “Who is it? Come in.” At home, he was used to waking at his leisure and ringing for an attendant if he required one, but it would appear that on Arkanis, far stricter schedules are observed. He is blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes when a wide-eyed footman opens the door and peeks his dark head inside.

“Good morning, Master Ren,” the baby-cheeked young man says. “My name is Mitaka, and I have been sent to provide you with anything you might need. His Majesty asked me to wake you so you did not sleep the whole day away, as he understands that you won’t yet have adjusted to the time difference between your home planet and our own.” He blinks at Ren when he’s finished his report, looking as if he expects to be graded on it.

“Thank you,” Ren says, only half-paying attention. The terrified footman is correct in this respect; the time change from Naboo is more than nine hours, and despite having been here two days now, Ren still finds himself tired at odd hours, and would, indeed, have continued to sleep perhaps indefinitely if he hadn’t been awoken.

Mitaka is looking at him warily, hovering at the door, ready to bolt. “Would you care for something to eat?” he blurts. “Breakfast in bed? Or caf? Tea? Anything?”

Now that he’s been made aware that he cannot, Ren would really prefer to go back to sleep; but if the emperor wants him awake, awake he will be. He shakes his head. “I’ll eat in the dining-room,” he tells Mitaka. “Please.” He rises from bed, taking one of the furs with him to wrap around his pyjama-clad shoulders, and the footman steps even farther towards the threshold as his full bulk is revealed from beneath the covers.

“Yes, sir,” Mitaka stammers. “Very well, sir.” And he disappears.

Left alone, Ren sighs. He supposes yesterday morning’s lie-in was a luxury, permitted to allow his body and mind to adjust; but now he is to integrate himself into the routine of palace life. He has heard tell that Hux’s own day begins at four a.m. promptly, and wonders disagreeably if he will one day be expected to follow _that_ routine. _But I am getting ahead of myself._

He pulls the fur wrap tighter around himself — he should have asked Mitaka to light the fire; despite the palace’s sophisticated heating system, the air on Arkanis is still so _cold —_ and then leaves his bedchamber.

He emerges into the corridor leading to the sitting-room. Padding cautiously around the corner, he exhales a sigh of relief to find the room empty: mercifully, unlike yesterday morning, there is no Captain Phasma waiting for him there. _So it’s not to be a regularly-scheduled confrontation._ He considers for a moment whether that would be preferable to having her spring on him unannounced — he can already imagine that she will, for some infraction or another, still to be committed — and decides that yes, it might’ve been. _Oh, well._ He yawns and makes his way into the dining area.

This room, too, is empty, but for a hospitality droid waiting at the side of the room. When Ren enters, it burbles at him and then disappears into another room, returning a moment later with plates of food. “Thank you,” Ren tells it, surprised, and drops into a seat at the table. His stomach rumbles; he reaches gladly for fruit, bread, and eggs. The droid offers him tea, which he accepts, wrapping his cold hands around the mug and inhaling the sharp, herbal scent. He takes a sip, closing his eyes.

He eats in silence, relieved not to be on display or on his guard, as at dinner with Hux or yesterday morning with Phasma. And as he eats, undisturbed by conversation, his mind wanders to last night.

He is still slightly puzzled by Hux’s behaviour. He had been so insistent that Ren touch himself, show off for him; Ren had expected, then, to find him a voyeur, content to bring himself off to the sight of another’s pleasure. But he hadn’t — not until he was alone. Ren wonders at the nature of his reluctance. _Is he…deformed?_ he wonders for the first time. _Or incapable?_ But then, why seek out a whore at all?

The thoughts strike him: _Perhaps he is shy. Perhaps he is…ashamed._

Ren drains the last of his tea, thoughtfully, and the droid hurries to refill it. He toys with the spoon, swirling it through the steaming liquid. The emperor is a slim man, slight; perhaps he feels himself lacking in other areas… Ren almost smiles at the thought. _If all he requires is for me to please myself, and he’ll take care of himself on his own — well, that will be easy._

He feels a strange disappointment at the thought. He pushes the feeling away before he can examine it too deeply — and too ignores the memory of the soft urgent sounds the emperor had made, thinking himself unheard…

Ren pushes his chair back and removes the blanket from his shoulders. He is warm now. He returns to his bedchamber in a hurry, leaving the droid to clear the table, and goes into the adjoining refresher. He strips, turns the hydro in the shower on, washes his hair and his face, and then reaches for his cock — stiffening — without thinking. He grabs the faucet and douses himself in freezing water as soon as he realises what he’s doing.

When he has towelled-off, cleaned his teeth, and dressed in the first outfit he found in the wardrobe — when he has run out of familiar, necessary tasks to complete — he sits down with a _whump_ on the bed, at a loss. He realises, belatedly, that he has no idea what he will do here during the day, now that his period of instruction appears to have come to an end. Assuming Hux will require, or desire, his services today at all, he expects he will be summoned to him tonight; but Phasma had told him to always be prepared, just in case. Ren realises that he has no idea what that means.

He has heard tell of life in harems, on far-distant planets, where pampered concubines spend all their days making themselves beautiful, desirable, combing each other’s hair and dressing up in clothes their master has bought them, bedecking themselves with jewels and perfumes. Lounging on silken pillows, listening to slave-creatures play music, being fed sweets and wine — or so Ren imagines, at least. But that is a whole house of pleasure-slaves, and he is just one man, alone in an unfamiliar palace. He has no idea when, or if, he will be required, and if so, for what.

He sighs. He decides it will be better to ask forgiveness for any accidental missteps than to seek out the captain and ask her permission to do anything. But now the question is, what to do?

_I could see Ykara again._ Once she’d warmed to him — sized him up and found him acceptable — Ykara had been a deeply interesting companion, and Ren had enjoyed their time together more than he’d previously realised. _And she said she’d help me._ Pursuing her acquaintance seems a solid strategic move, as well as, unexpectedly, a potentially pleasant personal one. Ren stands from the bed and smooths down his robes. He hopes he remembers the way to her rooms. _I_ _f not, it seems I have nothing but time._

But before he sets out for Ykara’s rooms, he returns to the emperor’s, out of simple curiosity. He finds the outer doors, surprisingly, unlocked, and supposes this court is rigid enough in its hierarchy and rules to make intrusion into the emperor’s private space unthinkable. But then he remembers that Hux has allowed him the use of these rooms. He hadn’t thought much of it before, but is now surprised, and curiously touched, by the level of trust Hux has already put in him.

_Such faith, and so misguided. He has no idea._

Ren almost feels sorry, for this. Again, he tamps these feelings down, and enters the suite, defiant.

His path takes him through the receiving-room (the hearth cold now, no visitors expected), past the empty dining-room, and farther still, where he finds the doors to Hux’s bedchamber — unlike all the rest, firmly sealed. _Sensible, that._ Of course the feeling of safety that Hux finds only in his own bedroom should be kept under lock and key.

(Ren knows, somehow, all at once, that the emperor was a lonely child.)

Down the hall from the bedroom is his study, which Ren remembers is barred to him. He acknowledges that this could mark it of importance to his mission, and thus make it worth reconnaissance; but he has no desire to begin spying in earnest just yet. Last night’s success has made him lazy already — and then there is this _wrongness_ nagging at the back of his mind, this sense that he is trespassing; that he is taking advantage of Hux’s faith in him, his _need_ for him, the very fact that Ren is here at all.

He is, of course. He had not thought ill of himself for it before; _but before, I knew him not at all._

He turns around and leaves the emperor’s rooms.

Ykara’s rooms, as it turns out, adjoin Hux’s on the opposite side of Ren’s: the emperor’s suite flanked by those that, Ren realises suddenly, must once have belonged to the empress and her son.

How strange it is — when this palace was built, a different man occupied the central rooms, and different people the outward ones. No one could have imagined how their places would shift, like pieces in a game of Shah-tezh. The son displaced his father, in the natural order of things; but the empress died, unexpected, and two wild-cards entered into play. Foreigners, strangers, intruders at court, and yet brought here to its very heart. _Even on Arkanis, rules can bend, can change._

Ren knocks at Ykara’s parlour door. He has no idea whether she will be in — what her own life, here, is like **—**  but he soon finds out. The door is opened by a protocol droid. “Yes?” it asks owlishly, reminding Ren of his uncle’s own C3PO at home.

Ren clears his throat. “Is your mistress in?” he asks politely, having learned from Threepio that even droids have a sense of self-respect (protocol units’ being, perhaps, a sight inflated.)

“Who asks for her?” The droid peers at him, so much as flat, reflective metal eyes can peer.

“Tell her it’s Ren.”

The droid disappears, leaving the door ajar. Ren catches sight of the yellow damask divan again, and a vase of flowers on the low table, their brilliant pink heads drooping luxuriously as if worn-out by the weight of their own elegance. He can smell something sweet from inside the room, and recognises Ykara’s perfume: amber.

The droid returns a moment later. “My mistress is finishing her toilette,” it informs him ostentatiously, “but will receive you when she is ready. She would like to know if you would care for tea, although she reminds you that it is, in fact, far too early for it.”

It awaits his reply, pompous even in silence. Ren has to smile: he can imagine the look of slight disapproval on Ykara’s face, one eyebrow raised, as she instructed the droid about the tea. _He’s uneducated in such matters,_ he can hear her saying haughtily. _We must teach him._

“I don’t need tea,” he replies. “I’ve just eaten.” He gestures: “May I come in?”

He takes a seat on the yellow divan, folding his hands in his lap. The protocol droid bustles off, sighing, affronted, as if dealing with Ren has exhausted his circuits — Ren had assumed this to be a quirk in Threepio’s programming, but now is amused to find that it must be the standard for these models. He looks around the room, again appreciating the familiar décor, and waits for his hostess.

She is not long in appearing. She emerges from somewhere within the suite, her perfume preceding her; Ren looks up, and stands when she comes in. Ykara smiles down her aquiline nose at him and says, “Good morning, Ren,” holding her hand out for him to kiss. She is dressed in black again, of finest lace today.

“Good morning, Ykara. You look lovely today.” Ren stands up straight and releases her hand. He steps aside to let her pass, and only once she has seated herself does he sit back down.

She nods at him when he does, approving of his manners — “Thank you, child” — and he wonders briefly if he should have made more of a fool of himself, to keep his cover. _Oh, well. I am learning quickly._

“You found me,” Ykara comments, crossing her legs elegantly at the ankle and brushing an invisible fleck of dust from her heavy skirts. “I wondered if you would.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” All at once Ren is abashed: he hadn’t considered that she might not want to see him, or at least not on his terms rather than her own. He flushes. “I apologise if I am intruding —”  

“No, no, child.” Unexpectedly, she smiles, and her eyes are warm. “Since the emperor’s death I have led a solitary life. I don’t receive many visitors anymore.”

Her voice as she says this is light, as if unconcerned, but the flicker of feeling that radiates toward Ren tells a different story. _She misses it. She misses being at the centre of court life:_ being _the centre, herself. She’s lonely._

Ren feels a rush of compassion for her, and smiles back, hoping she understands. “I’ll be happy to visit. As often as you’d like.”

“When the prince doesn’t need you,” Ykara reminds him. “Of course.”

“Of course.”

There is a brief, delicate silence, and then Ykara says, straightforward as ever, “Last night, then. Did you please him?”

Ren hesitates. “Well — I think so.”

Ykara raises her eyebrows. “Couldn’t you tell?” she asks drily.

“No, no,” Ren says, embarrassed. “He wasn’t — we weren’t — it was different. Not like you’re thinking.”

“How, then?”

Again, he finds her bluntness unusual, but refreshing; she has no shame, and it makes him unashamed as well. He speaks freely. “He…didn’t touch me.”

“No?” Ykara uncrosses and re-crosses her legs. “Did he have you touch him, then?”

“No.”

“Curious,” she pronounces. “What did you do for him? If you pleased him, as you say.”

“I…” Ren clears his throat. “He wanted to watch me.”

“Ah.” She nods her understanding. “And took his own pleasure once you were gone.”

Ren nods, too. “That was…that seemed to be enough.”

She gives a small shrug. “That could change,” she reminds him. “Don’t get comfortable yet.”

“I know. I won’t.”

“Wise.” She nods, approving, and examines a ring on her left hand, adjusting it minutely. “You have made a start, at least. I wish you luck tonight. But what of today? What will you do with yourself?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Ren confesses. “In fact, that’s why I came — I wanted to see you again, and I thought perhaps you might know what I’m…meant to do all day.”

He does not mistake the glimmer of warmth in her eyes when he said he’d wanted to see her. Ykara straightens her back. “Well, child, I regret to tell you that there is not terribly much _for_ you to do. The emperor liked me to come to his meetings and audiences with him, eventually, but I daresay you are not there yet. That occupied most of my days, and court affairs my evenings. Hunting, too.” Her nose wrinkles. “A despicable activity, and yet the prince seems as fond of it as his father, or at least as determined to do it. You’ll be expected to join him when he does.”

Ren doesn’t like the idea of this. He winces. “Not today, though, surely.”

“No, no. You’ll have fair warning.” Ykara sniffs. “I will be obliged to go as well. We might endure together.”

Ren smiles. Ykara smiles back. _Allies, then, for true._ He feels relief. “Today, though — how do you suggest I occupy myself?” He is beginning to feel he should go; he has no desire to take up all Ykara’s time, as little filled as she says it is, no more than he’s sure she wants to entertain him all day.

Ykara gives a languorous shrug. “Explore the palace, I suppose. You have seen all the west wing by now; the centre wing is the throne room, great hall, banquet rooms, ballroom” —  _only one,_ Ren notes, where in Theed they have several, for every occasion. “The east wing is the guest suites, and the emperor’s collections of art, antiques, artefacts, historic documents, and…trophies.” Her nose wrinkles. “Some of that could be of interest.”

“Yes,” Ren agrees readily. Though he’s not sure he wants to spend all his days here loafing around what sounds like a museum — they’ve never held much interest for him — he recognises that learning the planet’s history, told in its own voice, could be of immense help with his integration into court life. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

“You’re welcome, child.” She inclines her head. “I am sorry I was not at your first dinner,” she adds. “I do not often dine with the court any longer. I know I am not...most wanted, there, and prefer to keep to my own rooms.”

_Ah._ Now Ren understands, at least a little more. He still wonders why, exactly, she is not wanted, but doesn’t ask. “That’s quite all right,” he tells her. “I would be happy to join you here, if ever you felt like company.”

She smiles. “I do not know what the prince would say to that, but thank you for your offer, child. For right now it is no matter; I will be present at table tonight.”

Ren is pleased. “Wonderful,” he says. “In that case, then — I’ll take up no more of your time and go investigate, and I’ll see you at dinner.” He rises, bowing politely to her. “Good day, Ykara.”

“Until dinner, Ren.” She rises too, and smiles when he kisses the back of her hand. “Call on me again whenever you’d like,” she adds at the door, and Ren can hear a slight wistfulness in her tone.

He smiles at her, sincere. “I will be sure to.”

He leaves her rooms feeling better than he had. The goal, then, he supposes, will be to attain the position that Ykara had occupied in Hux’s father’s court: to be invited into his inner circle, to gain such trust as to have the emperor think nothing of letting Ren observe and hear internal, secret court proceedings. This way, no doubt, he will learn all there is to know about Starkiller, whatever it is —  _but I must earn that place, first._

He will begin by educating himself, learning to think like an Arkanisian. He finds his way out of the west wing, and heads across the palace to the east.

He notices the study once more as he goes, and tries to commit its door, with those complex locks, to memory, just in case. Passing through the central wing, Ren pauses only long enough to hear the complaints of a fisherman, come from the capital, through the heavy doors that lead into the throne room. The path through the corridors is long, each turn sharp and hurried, and soon enough the walls, rooms, decorations resemble nothing of the west wing of the palace.

The furniture on this side of the palace is old, antiques draped in satiny purples and deep reds, their condition pristine yet lacking, somehow; as though their proud heads have drooped after years of neglect, as though no one has paid them any mind in the time since they were acquired, by legitimate or other means. They are polished, dusted, but they do not gleam in the lamplight that flickers up the walls: not as the gifts in the halls of Naboo do, seeming lit within by a gentle pride.

Ren moves farther down the hallways, winding deeper into the palace. He passes a solitary maid, an older woman with fading purple hair and deep ebony skin. She is silent, occupied utterly with her work, and as the halls stretch ever onward, Ren realizes that he too is by himself, the only soul venturing into the vast array of knowledge left unvisited in the east wing.

It is, Ren realises, in essence the palace attic, crammed to bursting with relics from forgotten times: things too materially precious to discard completely, but not of any other value, not of enough importance to pick up and dust off and remember what once had been.

His heart rate jumps as he rounds a corner, coming nose to nose with a sabre-cat, its huge horn slicing through the air above Ren’s head and its long front paws outstretched toward him, razor talons ready to rend flesh from bone. Ren shakes his head in disgust. Around the room, taxidermied animals are everywhere: hunting trophies poised in fights of death or victory, attacking the viewer or themselves or each other. Ren looks more closely at the purple pelt of the sabre-cat, chilled even in death by the bulk of muscle that ripples over its wiry frame.

An arquet rests near the back wall, huge horns on either side of its head curving out into the room and split-hoofed claws biting into the artificial grass beneath its feet. A hook hawk hangs from the rafters, wings outstretched in flight and wickedly-curved beak clamped around its prey. A pack of hyenax circle around a choku, frozen mid-snarl, the fur on the back of their necks permanently standing on edge.

They are everywhere Ren looks, packs of animals scattered around the massive trophy room. _Is this what Hux aspires to as well, this kind of slaughter?_ Ren has always despised death for death’s own sake.

He skirts around a group of tuggle as he slips into the adjoining room, leaving the ostentatious display of power behind him. The next room is just as gaudy, huge glass frames placed over row upon row of weapons: ancient blasters and tensor rifles and gaderffii clubs and vibro-axes. Battle-droids line the left wall of the room, all powered-down but still imposing in their stature. A few have been disassembled, parts laid out on display for the room to see. A range of sonic weapons lines the wall above the droids’ heads, model upon model on display: an entire evolutionary line of upgrades.

The following room is just as expansive, just as useless as the last two. War machines sit everywhere, very few that Ren can name. He picks out a groundborer sitting beside something large and circular that looks as though it throws off flames. The room is so full that Ren has to shove his considerable frame past a decimator to continue on.

Each room is like the last, history and war melded together to make a museum of destruction. Each weapon and transport and salvaged artefact from a planet that the old emperor had conquered, or, Ren assumes, had still planned on laying claim to before his unexpected passing. It is a classroom and a trophy house all in one place.

Ren slips into a chamber with no windows, leaving behind a room of faded uniforms, ranging back in time to even before the First Empire. The lights are off, save for a podium in the middle of the floor that glows faintly. Plush chairs line the outer edges of the room, and Ren almost turns to leave, not interested in watching a holographic display, when the reel begins.

Planets blink into existence around him as he makes his way to one of the viewing seats, walking right through Coruscant, the planet's dark blue surface flickering in his wake. He settles into one of the stiff-backed seats as a deep and resounding voice fills the room with its melodic rhythm.

“When the First Empire fell and the galaxy tumbled once more into turmoil, the people of Arkanis descended into chaos, struggles for power taking precedence over the necessities of life. Thousands had been lost in the war, and when the survivors returned, disheartened and battered, to their homeland, they found their crops perishing, the economy failing, and the weak monarch losing his hold on the reins of government. All hope seemed lost.

“But one man — great in his might, a last relic of the Empire’s reign — stepped forward to bring peace to the people, laying out before them a path of great purpose and prosperity.

“Emperor Brendol Hux the First, gracious but firm, liberated the people from the disordered rule of Arkanis’ king: a man who did nothing to quell the terror and despair in his people’s hearts. Benevolent and powerful, the emperor brought safety back to the people, securing for them the basic needs that had previously been ignored; reformed the economy and increased foreign and domestic trade; and, soon after his accession, returned the luxuries that the citizens of Arkanis had once enjoyed.”

Ren shakes his head in disbelief as image after image of cheering crowds flicker before him, smiles never quite reaching the people’s eyes.

“Once he had brought order back to Arkanis itself, the emperor struck out to bring _all_ his people home, liberating first one planet and then the next. Long ago, before the mighty First Empire was even a dream, the people of Arkanis had left their home shores and colonised the diverse planets of the Outer Rim. Over the millennia, however, the civilisations that they left behind were overrun, and disorder reigned again — but Emperor Hux now set out to draw each Arkanisian colony back under the protective wings of the Empire. Thus the Great Homecoming began.”

_They were conquests, not liberations._ Many of the small planets in the Outer Rim had celebrated having thrown off the shackles of Arkanisian rule centuries before Hux’s father came to power, and had developed into independent civilisations of their own. Ren highly doubts that they welcomed the return of the yoke so easily as this propaganda claims.

An expansive hologram of the galaxy now spreads out before Ren. Realism be damned, Arkanis is in the exact middle of the room (and thus the galaxy), glowing brightly despite the gloom of the clouds that encircle it. Its small moons cling to its orbit like dewdrops to a blade of grass. As the talking continues, ever more planets began to shine and glow, illustrating their takeover (again) by Arkanisian forces.

“The expansion spread, the Homecoming continued, and the emperor ruled justly over all of his people,” the narrator continues, sounding fiercely proud. “And even after the first Emperor Hux’s tragic and untimely death, his only son and heir continues to rule with a firm and righteous hand. One day, his great reign will be accepted and invited by all, and all the galaxy will know the might of the New Galactic Empire.”

Ren wonders if this part of the recording has been added recently, at Hux’s command. The luminescent glow of the conquered worlds spreads ever faster, a plague across the galaxy, and Ren’s eyes widen as he sees the extent to which the empire desires to fully expand: Naboo consumed, Coruscant glowing, Dantooine bright under the harsh lights of the empire, all the way across the stars from Arkanis.

The projection ends as quickly as it had begun, plunging the room back into darkness. Ren hauls himself to his feet, the final shining image of conquest still burned into his memory as he weaves his way back toward the west wing of the castle. He will tell his mother all of this.

*

After supper that night, Hux rises and bids the court goodnight. This time there is no ceremony inviting Ren to join him, only a glance from Hux telling him what is expected; and so Ren rises too, and follows him from the hall without a word. He can feel the court’s eyes on him as their conversations slowly resume, the murmurs following them out the doors like a swarm of insects. Ren swallows, keeps his head down, and quickens his step to follow the emperor, who strides through his palace at an authoritative pace.

Hux is silent the whole walk to his quarters, the click of his boots on the floor the only sound, and Ren keeps silent, too. When they arrive, Hux pulls off one glove to press his finger to the scanner; Ren steps hurriedly inside before the door shuts behind him. It closes with a _whish._

Inside, Hux turns to face him. He says nothing, but arches one eyebrow slightly, apparently waiting for Ren to make the first move: _Well?_

Ren steadies himself. He wishes, not for the first time, that his Force-powers included the ability to see the future. “What would you like tonight, my lord?” he asks finally, the words nearly sticking in his throat. “The same as last time, or something else?”

The emperor appraises him a moment: despite his many layers of colourfully-embroidered Nabooian garb, Hux’s gaze makes Ren feel naked. He fights not to duck his head or flinch away. Hux’s thumb traces over his lips, and then he decides, his eyes impassive, “Something else, tonight.”

Ren bobs a nod. “How would you like me?” he asks, lowering his voice, trying not to sound as anxious as he suddenly feels.

Instead of replying, Hux takes the heavy coat from his own shoulders. “Were you kissed, at the brothel?” he asks casually, laying the coat over a chair, neat, although surely a droid will straighten it before putting it away. “Was that permitted?”

Ren looks at him, and wonders if he will ever grow accustomed to seeing him, so slim and lithe and _small,_ without the garb of his position. He swallows. “Sometimes, sir,” he lies quietly. “Not often.” He hopes this is what Hux wants: to conquer, to lay claim, to be the first on virgin land.

It is. Hux smiles, and fixes Ren’s eyes. “Come here,” he says. He lifts his chin, completely in control. “Kiss me.”

_So finally I am to touch him._ This is like no seduction Ren has ever experienced, as seducer or seduced. There is nothing natural, spontaneous about it; both parties are heavily aware of the high expectations, the outcomes riding on this, the next step in their strange and singular relationship. And it is with this heavy weight on his shoulders that Ren crosses the room, heart pounding, and leans in for their first touch: their first kiss.

The emperor exhales, eyes closing as he moves to meet him. His lips are soft, not like marble at all.

He pulls back after a moment. Ren has not ventured any of his _skills,_ hesitant for now. “Good,” Hux breathes, his eyes half-lidded. “A very good start indeed.” He brushes his thumb over Ren’s bottom lip, and then kisses him again.

Ren responds, and not all of his enthusiasm is feigned: the emperor is skilled too, it would seem, in the same arts for which he has requested Ren’s use. Without breaking the kiss Hux guides them back, back towards the great bed, and he sinks down upon it, pulling Ren onto his lap. He opens his mouth and lets Ren inside, lets him taste and tease until Hux gives a sigh.

“Good, Ren,” he murmurs again. He shifts his hips against Ren’s, and Ren feels the hardness there, through the fabric of their trousers. His own heart skips a beat; he feels himself growing hard in kind, and he knows Hux must feel it too. The emperor gives him a slight, knowing smile, and then he reaches up to claim his mouth again, and as Ren kisses him back he thinks with relief, _This will be easy after all; by all the stars, this will be easy._

 They are breathing hard, soon, and Ren feels himself straining against his clothes as Hux moves his body (expertly, and with intention) against his own as they kiss. The slightest of groans escapes his throat (he has fought to keep silent, all this time, not wanting to give himself over completely) — and at this Hux commands, his breath ghosting over the exposed skin of Ren’s throat, “Undress me.”

At once Ren gets off his lap, to allow the emperor to stand. He is very aware of his own erection, tenting his trousers now between the thighs, and resists the urge to cross his legs and hide it: _A real whore wouldn’t care_.

Without his coat, Hux is down to his tunic, made of a heavy black synthsilk and belted tightly at the waist. Ren unclasps the smooth silver buckle with unsteady fingers and takes the tunic from Hux’s slender shoulders. He lays it carefully down with the coat, leaving Hux in his undershirt. The exposed skin of his lean arms is smooth and creamy-pale, dusted here and there with freckles; Hux shivers when Ren trails his fingers over them.

“Pretty,” Ren comments softly, feeling brave. “Like stars.”

“Hardly,” Hux replies, his voice low too. “They are a blemish.”

Ren bends to kiss one freckled shoulder. Hux shivers, his lips opening on reflex, and makes no further protest.

Braver still, now, Ren removes Hux’s shirt without being told to, and dips his head to brush his mouth over his nipples. The emperor shuts his eyes and leans into his touch, a low sound collecting in his throat. Ren’s hands move to his trousers and unfasten them slowly: Hux opens his eyes, and fixes his gaze on Ren as he steps out of them.

“You too,” Hux says. “Strip for me.”

Ren does. He removes one layer at a time — silk shoes, draped cloak, long tunic, loose trousers — his hands steadier than he’d expected, his chest rising and falling fast. They stand nude before one another, utterly exposed.

Hux beckons with a curled finger. “Come here.”

Ren steps forward.

“On your knees.”

Ren kneels at his feet. His heart is pounding.

He knows how to do this, of course. Although he had had little opportunity for _socialisation_ of the typical sort within the rigid confines of palace life, he and his friends had made many a secret nighttime jaunt to some of the better pleasure-houses in Theed. (He is not totally ignorant of the lifestyle he has now assumed.) And though Ren had been the one buying, not selling, in these establishments, he’d learned tricks from those servicing him all the same: learned how to take a man in his mouth; how to fuck him deep and slow, or hard and rough as he liked.

He had been told, more than once, that he was good at it.

He employs his education now. The emperor, Ren sees for the first time, has a fine slim cock, standing flushed and upright amid a close-trimmed tangle of red curls. Gently he reaches for it, and draws it to his lips. At even this slightest of contacts, Hux gives an exhalation. His hands flutter at his sides.

Ren opens his mouth. He takes the emperor’s cock inside, not all the way at first, but enough to make Hux shudder. He feels hands come up to rest on his shoulders, and, pulling him forward, Hux thrusts deeper into Ren’s mouth.

“Good, Ren,” Hux tells him, slightly breathless, his fingers pressing into Ren’s skin. “More.”

Ren struggles, briefly — he is out of practise — but soon obeys. He relaxes enough to take Hux’s full length inside his mouth, and closes his lips tight around it. Hux hums audibly. Ren breathes through his nose and reads Hux’s emotions through the Force: he is far more responsive tonight than the night before, telegraphing his feelings more clearly; and he is, decidedly, pleased.

Ren applies himself to his task with a new vigour, feeling relief. He moves up and down Hux’s shaft, varying the pressure and the strokes of his tongue, feeling Hux hard and hot, deep inside his mouth. When he makes, tentatively, to touch himself and relieve some of the near-painful pressure between his own legs, Hux stops him with a word:

“No,” he says, his voice husky. “Hands behind your back.”

Ren complies, albeit reluctantly. Now that his attention has been drawn to it — now he is sure he is pleasing the emperor, and can worry about something else — he is acutely aware of his own stiff, swollen cock. _This is not about you,_ he reminds himself, sweeping his tongue over the head of Hux’s cock and coaxing a moan from him. _You’re not here to get anything in return._ Behind his back, his clasped hands strain against one another.

But still he cannot stop himself from prying, with the Force, a little deeper into Hux’s head. It does not take much — in such a vulnerable state, Hux’s guard is (almost) completely down. And soon Ren is pleasantly surprised to find a clear image of what Hux hopes to do next: he sees himself, sprawled on his back on the imperial bed, and Hux’s coppery head moving between his thighs…

He must be distracted enough by this potential boon to grow lax in his current duties, for Hux grips his shoulders harder and says, impatient, his voice rough, _“More,_ Ren. I’m close.”

Ren flushes with shame —  _you forget yourself, the mission! —_ and returns his attention fully to his task. It does not take long. Soon the emperor takes a last sharp breath, and with hardly a warning to Ren but for the bite of his nails into his shoulders, comes in Ren’s mouth, filling it with an acrid tang. He holds tight to Ren’s shoulders as his hips jerk once, twice, three times until he is spent, and then he pulls out of Ren’s mouth, leaving him to swallow down his spend. Ren’s mouth twists at the taste, and he hurries to wipe his lips before Hux can see his displeasure: a real whore would be accustomed, and hardly react at all.

Luckily Hux does not notice; he is occupied with catching his breath, his eyes closed, as the last waves of pleasure ripple through him. He opens his eyes again. “Thank you, Ren,” the emperor says carelessly, almost an afterthought; he sits down on the bed, his cock already softening to rest between his freckled thighs, and gives a satiated sigh.

Ren stays on the floor, daring not move although his cock begs to be touched. The desperate ache is distracting; he imagines fleetingly what he will do if the emperor dismisses him after all. The thought of going back to his room, untouched and ashamed, to bring himself off between the cool silk sheets is a maddening one — and he reprimands himself at once for this: _You are here for him alone. Your own pleasure is of no consequence._

He looks up at Hux. “Did I please you, sir?”

Hux nods. “Yes, and very well.” He tilts his head to one side, ever so slightly. “Well enough, I think, to receive something in return.” He lets the offer hang in the air as if it were truly a question, but Ren knows better. This indulgence is not truly for his benefit, but a show of the emperor’s power, just like all the rest of it. Hux crooks a finger: “Come.”

Ren hurries, too eager, to his feet, his cock jutting painfully from between his legs. Hux’s lips quirk to see it, he is pleased with himself; he beckons again, patting the bed. “Lie back,” Hux directs him, his voice smooth as silk. “Let me return your kindness.”

Ren crawls up the bed to prop himself against the headboard, just as he had the night before. Just as then, he spreads his legs, but with less hesitation this time; and the emperor, his movements sleek as a cat’s, arranges himself between Ren’s well-muscled thighs.

“This is all right?” Hux asks, perfunctory, his eyes glinting, and Ren nods quickly, the pressure in his groin made nigh-unbearable by Hux’s presence, his _nearness,_ the clean cool scent of him beneath the musk of sweat and sex. His short soft hair, its pomade beginning to lose its hold, brushes against Ren’s skin as he bends to take him in his mouth, and goose-pimples prickle all over Ren’s body.

Hux is good with his mouth. Ren learns this quick enough, as those pretty lips close around his cock. He sees Hux’s jaw working to accommodate his girth — he knows from previous partners that this is not always easy, and he is about to indicate to him that he need not struggle, not overexert himself — but then by some neat manoeuvre the emperor manages to take him nearly all the way inside, and Ren cannot suppress a moan when he feels himself swallowed-up. Hux’s tongue is wet and agile; he knows well what he is doing, as evidenced by the gasp Ren gives when he teases round his head, and Ren has to wonder where he learned such skills, a sheltered prince like this.

Ren had never imagined that the repressive mores of Arkanis and the Empire would permit any _explorations_ of the sort he himself has undertaken, much less for their only prince. Curious, and although struggling to maintain focus as Hux continues his pursuits between his legs, Ren delves again into Hux’s thoughts, and pries until he finds an answer: the briefest glimpse of a young man in a cadet’s uniform, on his knees, with his blond head bobbing between a teenaged Hux’s thighs.

_The academy, then,_ Ren understands all at once, as the younger Hux’s soft moans of undiscovered pleasure, echoing within his head, give way to an outward cry of Ren’s own. Hux is trailing his fingers, feather-light and cool, over the tender skin of Ren’s belly and thighs, while still ministering expertly to his cock with his mouth. In Ren’s distraction the retrieved image dissolves, and he is too consumed by his own pleasure, now, to call it up again. He resolves to ask Hux another time; for he foresees, now, smooth sailing for the future of his mission, and plenty of opportunities to find out all he needs —  _or wants_  — to know.

Hux is licking slow, maddening circles around the head of Ren’s cock, and he can no longer ignore the mounting tide within his gut. “My lord,” he warns the emperor, breathless, “I’m close, I’m so close,” and smoothly Hux pulls back, his lips giving a wet _pop_ as they lose contact with his cock.

“Come for me,” Hux orders him confidently; and Ren does.

His back arches, the crown of his skull making painful contact with the headboard, but he hardly registers the impact as his orgasm courses through him, pulling a shout from his lips: _“Oh,”_ he cries, biting back a moan of _Hux_ at the last second, remembering even now that he has not been given permission to refer to the emperor as such. His cock pulses and he comes onto his stomach and chest, Hux watching him all the while.

“Thank you, my lord,” Ren breathes as soon as he finds his voice again, startled by the force of his climax. He struggles to sit up straight again, his arms weak, and now he feels a dull ache beginning to throb in his head. He reaches up gingerly to rub the tender spot, wincing. Hux watches him in silence for a moment more, an enigmatic half-smile on his lips; and then the emperor rises, and goes around the corner.

When he returns he has straightened his dishevelled hair and is knotting a dressing-gown around his waist. He hands Ren a towel, which he takes gratefully and uses to clean the mess from his skin.

“Thank you, Ren,” Hux says, more cordially now. Seeing that he’s finished cleaning up, with the most minute of gestures he indicates that Ren vacate his bed. “You may get dressed,” Hux suggests, and Ren scrambles to do so. “Tomorrow morning,” Hux adds, as Ren is sloppily retying the lacings of his formal tunic. “Will you break your fast in my rooms?”

Ren gives an automatic nod, knowing of course that he cannot refuse. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” _Progress!_

Hux smiles. “0600 hours. Shall I send Phasma to wake you?”

“No, sir. That won’t be necessary.” Ren dreads the thought of facing the captain in a bleary-eyed, half-awake state; he can hardly handle her on a full night’s rest. “I will be there promptly.” He locates his slippers and slides them onto his feet.

“Good.” Hux gives a curt, satisfied nod. “You are dismissed until then. Goodnight, Ren.”

Ren makes a low bow. “Goodnight, my lord. Sleep well.”

The door slides shut and seals itself behind him. From inside, Ren can hear the _click_ indicating that Hux has locked it for the night. He is alone in the hallway.

When he returns to his own room — the lights flaring up at his soft command, a low fire dying in the hearth — he sheds his clothes again, rinses the cooling sweat from his skin, and dresses for sleep. He knows he should report back to the Resistance, even at this hour; the time difference between their planets, and his mother’s rigorous routine, mean that she will be awake on Naboo, and no doubt expecting news. But the surprising — and, he thinks, distinctly promising — events of the night have tired him so thoroughly that he knows he cannot muster sufficient energy to sustain a stable Force-bond.

This excuse is enough for now. He crawls between the covers and closes his eyes, only to be visited at once by images from tonight. Hux looking down at Ren on his knees, his pupils wide with arrogant lust. Hux’s head bobbing prettily as he worked his clever mouth. And again, that snippet of Hux’s past: the academy boy, the blond. Ren resolves, again, to ask Hux how he learned to please a man like this — for he _knows_ how, and he knows well. _He hardly needs a whore,_ Ren thinks drowsily, his thoughts beginning to cloud. _But he wants one. He wants me._

This thought should not be, but is, almost comforting. Ren drifts to sleep with the ghost of Hux’s touch on his skin, and the slightest of smiles on his lips.

*

In the morning, Ren wakes ten minutes before he is expected in Hux’s rooms. He springs out of bed and hurries to dress and wash his face, tying back his sweaty, sleep-tangled hair; he is ashamed not to bathe properly but more afraid of being late. He slips into the emperor’s private dining-room just as he hears voices and approaching footsteps from the connecting parlour.

Phasma’s deep alto responds to something her master has asked her, and Hux enters the dining-room with his captain close behind, saying somewhat irritably, “Yes, I know, Phasma, but it simply isn’t feasible if we’re to finish construction within the proposed timeline –”

Phasma notices Ren before Hux does, and clears her throat loudly. Hux turns his gaze and breaks off mid-sentence. “Ah, Ren,” he says smoothly, in a very different tone. “You’re just in time.”

Ren can hear the concealed surprise in his voice, and can tell by the peevish look in Phasma’s eyes that neither of them had expected him to be here when requested. He is miffed by their assumptions, and spitefully pleased not to have fulfilled them. Lifting his chin in the slightest defiance, he smiles demurely at them both, giving a deep bow in Hux’s direction and only a nod to Phasma. “My lord. Captain,” Ren greets them. “I bid you good morning.”

“Good morning, Ren,” Hux returns, going to take his seat at the head of the table — set for two — while Phasma scowls at Ren, unseen by the emperor. “Did you get enough sleep last night? I realise I kept you rather late.” He signals to the service-droid hovering behind him, and it whirs forth to pour him a steaming cup of tea from a shining silver pot.

“I slept very well, sir,” Ren answers, taking the seat across from Hux when the emperor motions for him to sit. Phasma remains standing, taking up her place at the door; Ren can feel her eyes on his back. “I am hardly accustomed to sleeping in such a fine bed,” he adds, “or even to having one of my own. An un-dreamed-of luxury, at home,” he says, giving a shy smile. His work for the day has begun.

Hux gives a slight smile, too, at this; Ren wonders if it pleases him to be thought of as a saviour, a rescuer of the damned and downtrodden — but then he reconsiders. _He likes to be reminded that he is better than I._ “I am glad your rooms are suitable,” Hux says. “They were my own, you know, before I was crowned; I always found them comfortable, if perhaps a tad cramped.”

“Oh, no, sir,” Ren replies, making sure to sound naïvely thrilled, although the former prince’s suite is half the size of his own rooms at home. “I’ve plenty of space — too much, perhaps! I fear I might get lonely,” he coquettes, creasing his brow.

A service-droid appears at his elbow and offers a plate of fruits; with his sharp silver fork Ren picks out cubes of honey-melon, slices of apple with a dark-red peel, and several small, tart green cloudberries. Delicately he spears one of these and eats it, glancing up at Hux as he does so.

“Well, I’m sure you won’t lack for companionship once you grow more accustomed to life at court,” Hux responds distractedly, taking the datapad offered to him by another droid and not catching Ren’s intended meaning. “You mentioned yesterday that you’d made the acquaintance of some of my staff and court. Whom?”

Ren, flushing slightly in embarrassment, swallows his mouthful of melon and answers, “Oh — the footman who woke me in the morning; the mistress of the wardrobe, who wanted to know how all my clothes were fitting — and thank you for those,” he adds hurriedly. “Everything you’ve provided fits perfectly, and it’s all so…splendid. I’ve never worn anything like it before.” The lie slips easily from his lips, and when Hux glances up at him, he gives a sweet, eager smile. “You’re spoiling me, sir.”

Ren thinks he hears a derisive sniff from behind him. He doesn’t turn around.

Hux gives a thin smile. “Here on Arkanis we provide nothing but the best for all our guests,” he replies. He turns back to his datapad and scrolls down the screen, sighing at what he sees there.

“A busy day ahead of you, my lord?” Ren asks. He doubts that Hux will mention the weapons project outright, but perhaps, if Ren gets an idea of what his days are like, he will at least have somewhere to begin his investigations.

“As ever,” Hux says drily. “Audiences beginning at 0800 hours and going until past noon; then council meetings, and fleet inspections, and an ambassador’s reception tonight. You,” he adds, looking up, “will not be attending; you’ll have the evening to yourself. Stay on the palace grounds; I may still send for you.”

The orders are delivered sharply, businesslike, as if Ren were one of the soldiers under Hux’s command. He is taken slightly aback —  _why not, then? Have I displeased him since last night? —_ but he knows better than to ask questions. He nods: “Yes, sir. As you please.”

 “You’ll have to be formally introduced to the court, and the empire’s allies, of course, but as yet there has not been the chance,” Hux says briskly. “No matter. It will happen in time.”

He sets the datapad down and picks up a pastry of some kind, slices it open, and spreads butter and deep-purple preserves over one half of it. (In public, Ren notes, as at dinner last night, Hux eats the traditional food of his people, but in private prefers luxuries imported from the Core Worlds. _Image versus truth.)_   A droid whirs forward to refill the emperor’s now-empty cup of tea.

Ren deliberates for a moment, and then decides that he should broach the subject of Ykara, in order to be sure where he stands. “Oh, yes,” he begins, an afterthought. “I did meet someone else, yesterday. Your father’s old favourite — Ykara?”

Hux looks up from his pastry. “Ah,” he says, his nose wrinkling briefly. “Yes.”

“Who is she, exactly?” Ren asks cautiously, sensing thin ice. “Not your — mother? Stepmother?”

“Neither.” Hux gives an irritable sigh, and launches into an impatient explanation:

 “My mother died when I was very young. My father never remarried, but found Ykara instead — much the way I found you, in fact,” he adds carelessly. “She, too, came from a brothel, but that did not prevent my father from falling hopelessly in love with her. She was raised from the gutters practically to the throne, and has enjoyed, in my opinion, far too much influence at court in the years that she’s been here.

“My father had ships christened for her, renovated the empress’s rooms at her request, even hired an architect she liked to design the new opera house in the capital. She sat in on his council meetings and lent her opinion to his every decision. Luckily my father was just as headstrong as she, and never let himself be overruled — the arguments they had! — for a weaker man would easily have been subdued.” Hux shakes his head. “And she continues to act as if she rules here, even a year after his death. If it weren’t for my father’s will, I’d have sent her home empty-handed the day after the funeral.”

The venom in his tone startles Ren: he had not expected such a tirade. He has heard the other side of this story, of course, and even after meeting her only once, he can certainly see why Hux would chafe at Ykara’s wilful social climbing and put-on airs of grandeur — he is a man who respects birthright and tradition, Ren knows this much already — but the near-hatred Hux seems to feel for her is surprising.

“You’re not fond of her, then?” Ren ventures. “I would have thought you’d be…close to her, if she’s been at court all your life.”

Hux’s face darkens. “No, I am not fond,” he says curtly, “although she has certainly tried her best to endear me to her. I remember when she first came to court — I was five years old. She bent down to greet me, wearing some hideous confection in velvet and lace that my father had bought her, and she told me that she could be my mother now, if I fancied.”

He gives a scoff. “I hit her. She gave the most affronted gasp, and I was dragged promptly away by the nanny-droid. My father gave me a sound beating for it, later, and I had to apologise to her; and she gave me a saccharine smile and told me she forgave me, and perhaps we could start over now?” He shakes his head. “The damage had been done. I didn’t want a new mother. I didn’t like that upstart then, and the harder she clings to her former position, the less and less I like her now.”

He finishes abruptly. With vehemence, he butters the other half of his pastry, his knife sharp and shining, and takes a decisive bite.

Ren is silent, rather stunned. Hesitantly, he picks up his mug (a droid has kindly filled it with the thick, sweet hot chocolate to be found on breakfast tables in Naboo), and takes a familiar, warming sip, to fill the silence if nothing else. He picks away at the rest of the fruit and the sweet breads on his plate, and when he dares to look up he finds Hux flipping through his datapad again, as if his outburst had never taken place.

Ren clears his throat, setting down his fork. “I rather liked her myself, sir,” he says quietly. “But if you would prefer that I didn’t, then I will not pursue her acquaintance.” The thought is discouraging; he had seen, in Ykara, a potential ally, perhaps even a friend, and he is disheartened to think that he might not be permitted to reach out to her.

Hux looks up, frowning. He seems at a loss for a moment; his brow furrows deeper; and then he comes up with an answer. It’s one that surprises Ren — not for its callousness, but for its humanity.

“Befriend her if you must,” Hux says. “She went through much the same thing as you are experiencing now, coming from a foreign place — Naboo, too, in fact — into this court, and having to adjust to a new position and new rules. We do things differently here, as I’m sure you’ll have noticed, than in many other courts; and of course neither of you lived in a court at all, before,” he adds, as if having to remind himself that not everyone grew up as he did.

“She could help you to settle in to life here, with her experience and her connections,” Hux continues, with grudging acceptance, unconsciously mirroring Ykara’s own sentiments on the matter. “You must be introduced to the court one way or another, and as I don’t have time to mind you myself, I suppose she’d be as good as anyone, my own prejudices aside.”

Ren is slightly insulted by the implication that he needs “minding” by anyone —  _I am not a savage, for stars’ sake —_ but more relieved that the one friendly face he’s encountered so far will not be forbidden to him. He bows his head. “Thank you, my lord,” he says. “Perhaps I can even help to smooth things over between you.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hux’s tone brooks no further discussion. He sets down his empty teacup and stands from the table, the droids hurrying to hover by the wall as he pushes back his chair. Ren stands quickly too, remembering his etiquette, although he still has half a mug of chocolate left, and there are several interesting pastries in the spread that he had rather hoped to sample.

“Where are you off to now, my lord?” Ren asks innocently, still hoping for some vague reference to the Starkiller project, giving him reason to pry further.

But he receives a disappointingly direct answer. “The governors of each of Arkanis’ provinces are joining me at court today to perform our annual administrative review,” Hux answers, shrugging on his formal coat with assistance from Phasma, who has somehow produced it: Ren hadn’t seen her with it when they came in. “A dull affair, but a necessary one.”

“And — what am I to do today, sir?” Ren asks.

Hux looks at him in slight bemusement. “Why, whatever you please, so long as you don’t leave the grounds, like I told you. It’s raining, you probably won’t want to go for a walk; but there is a library, and a shooting-range indoors, and several fine drawing-rooms. You were provided with a datapad as well, and the planet’s HoloNet is available for your use, should you desire it,” Hux tells him. “But I’m sure Phasma has told you all this?”

“Yes, sir,” Ren acknowledges, glancing at Phasma. Beneath her shock of white-blond hair her handsome face is stern and unimpressed, as ever. “I’m just — unaccustomed to having so much time to myself,” he confesses, and it’s true: his days on Naboo were highly regimented, taken up with his Jedi training, flying his X-wing for practise or Resistance missions, and state affairs with his mother, uncle, and cousin. “I’m sure I’ll find ways to amuse myself, though,” he adds hastily, when Hux gives the slightest frown, as if Ren had begged to spend the day by his side instead.

“Well, if you’d like, you might start the day with a bath,” Hux suggests rather pointedly, glancing at the messy knot of Ren’s hair. “There is a large tub in my private refresher, although I rarely use it myself.”

“A bath?” Ren repeats with only-half-feigned delight. Immediately he sees his chance, to be alone and contact the Resistance with no chance of being disturbed. “The bath-houses of Theed were my favourite place,” he lies effortlessly, “but it’s been so long since I’ve indulged. That would be wonderful, my lord.”

“Very well,” Hux says. He checks the chrono on his wrist. “The captain and I must be going, but the refresher is attached to my bedchamber; I’d imagine you can find your way there yourself?”

“Yes, sir,” Ren says, fighting to suppress a grin: if he’s left unsupervised in Hux’s rooms, he’ll have plenty of time not just for a bath, but to begin reconnaissance for his mission. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Hux pauses at the door which Phasma holds open for him, and says unexpectedly, “Enjoy yourself today, Ren. I do hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

Ren bows to him. “I think I will, my lord.”

“Tonight, then.” Hux’s lips might form a smile: in a second it is gone.

“Tonight.”

They leave; Ren is left alone. He waits, held still, to be sure no one is coming back, and then proceeds through the adjoining parlour (wall of viewports looking out on the back lawn, dark grey sky and rain pattering down; imposing heavy chairs, low glass-topped table, fireplace with nothing burning in the grate) into the imperial suite’s inner rooms.

The halls are empty, barren, and Ren moves down them silently, searching with the Force for any sign of life around him. Besides the guards, the nearest soul is a level below, pacing back and forth in a guest room: an ambassador from Qalydon _,_ Ren thinks, agonising over tonight’s dinner attire although it’s barely breakfast-time.

In the few days he has been here, Ren has already come this way more than once, always taking the same turns until he is walking past the dark Kriin-wood door that leads to Hux’s private study: never unattended, never unwatched by the emperor’s men. Today is no different, but instead of continuing on as is expected, he stops, pausing just in front of the guards. He knows exactly what to do to pass them by.

He focuses his mind, sending ripples through the Force that pull the thoughts of the two guards toward him. Ren locks eyes with each of them in turn, and smiles. “You will let me pass without interference. You will stand at attention as if no one is inside, and you will forget that you have seen me as soon as I leave,” he says, his voice seductive and soothing.  

Ren is out of practice, mind control not being the favoured way to acquire one’s desires on Naboo, but the commands seem to do the trick. The guards’ stiff posture slackens as he sweeps between them to the door, his words echoed back on either side of him.

Ren presses both hands to the solid wooden door, reaching through and beyond it with his mind, looking for any sign of trouble. He finds nothing: he is alone, and undetected.

The door’s locking mechanism is complex, intricate, a hundred moving parts that slot into place with the twisting of three keys — something Rey would take to in an instant; but Ren does not have her mechanical talents. He traces the pathways of the lock, building an image in his mind: gears and levers and an almost absurdly advanced surveillance system that will surely send out an alert if anything goes awry, informing anyone of importance of a breach into Hux’s study.

But Ren has to get inside. As yet, he has nothing of value with which to present his mother and the Resistance; but if he overcomes this obstacle, he hopes he will find what he needs. This should be fast, easy, a natural step for a Force-user of his skills. He could destroy the surveillance system, melt the wires from the inside — but that would set the alarm ringing, sending guards _(perhaps even Phasma,_ Ren thinks with a shudder) running here in a heartbeat. _Another way, then._

He closes his eyes and concentrates, pushing his control as far as it will go, narrowing his focus to each delicate mechanism in turn. _Click, click, click,_ and he turns the keyholes with only the force of his will. Slowly, surely, the door comes alive in a flurry of whirring, whizzing mechanics. The manoeuvre is effective, but it leaves Ren feeling drawn-out, his strength depleted.

The quiet noises stop suddenly, leaving the hall feeling still emptier than before, the hypnotised guards completely ignorant of the motion behind them. Ren waits on tenterhooks, his senses pushed farther than they should be, waiting for a storm of thundering feet to march toward him, to name him _spy_ and _traitor_ and drag him away; to place him before the firing squad, or rend his body limb from limb; burn him alive, perhaps, in flames the colour of Hux’s hair...

No one comes. _Don’t be foolish. You’re wasting time._ He shakes his head and pushes open the door, his heart beating too fast.

Inside the study, everything is pristine, impeccable, glass and metal and deep wood to match the door. A quiet _tick, tick, tick_ makes its way through the still air, thrown out by the ancient pendulum clock against the far stone wall. The desk is thick, heavy, and the walls are lined with shelf upon shelf of books, tomes cracking from age or gleaming with disuse. It is surprising, strange even, that the emperor would place so much value on books, paper books — expensive and hard to acquire — when the whole galaxy runs on wires and code, and has for centuries now. It is old-fashioned, a peculiar affectation — but right, somehow, for Hux, at least in Ren’s mind.

He moves farther into the room, slippered feet sinking into the plush carpet laid atop the cold stone floor, passing the two stiff-looking leather armchairs that rest in one corner. He trails his fingers over the dark wood of the desk as he moves around it, coming to rest behind its imposing frame. It is solid as glacier-ice, sturdy and old, extinct Kriin-wood worth hundreds of thousands of credits: enough to feed the starving in Theed for weeks, if not years. Ren’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

Across the surface of the desk, papers _(real paper, too,_ Ren thinks, oddly charmed) are stacked in pristine piles, real pens lined in neat rows, small paperweights and books not a fraction of an inch out of place, as if Hux had spaced them with a measuring tool before leaving.

The first collection of documents looks useless: trade agreements with Sedir, new immigration laws for Pelorum, plans for an army training-ground on Murkhana — nothing that the Nabooian government wouldn’t already be able to learn. The second pile is equally unhelpful: budgets for the maintenance of the palace, for the running of the capital city, for the living expenses of the household staff. Ren huffs in exasperation, but takes a careful look at each document anyway, committing it all to memory just in case.

He rifles through all the piles, but, beyond some files detailing the construction of a new Imperial military installation that he thinks could be of use, finds nothing of particular substance, nothing of value that he will be able to present to his mother when they next convene. He shuffles the papers back into their previous positions, tapping them against the table to line the corners up exactly as he’d found them. Ren glances at the clock. Minutes have slipped by without his noticing, the rotation of the guards approaching ever faster.

He reaches now for the drawers, pulling one and then another open, looking for something, anything that might be of use. Files on the upcoming sanctions against Coruscant — useless; an overflowing collection of petitions against pollution, resource extractions, the continuing use of the death penalty under Imperial law; another _for_ farming, for waterways, for labour laws — useless.

He slams shut one drawer and reaches for the last — but meets resistance. This one alone is locked.

Ren tugs at the handle again, glancing at the clock and mentally scanning the hall outside, searching for the next pair of guards. They are still far enough away, but approaching: he has a minute left, two at most. But this keyhole, simpler than the door locks, is far easier to manipulate, mere seconds of exertion required to twist the mechanism and pull open the drawer. Ren reaches inside, rushed now, pulling out piles of leather-bound notebooks, tearing through each as he commits as much information as he can to memory.

They contain pages upon pages of calculations, done in pencil, in neat, even rows. Numbers, formulae, diagrams, and equations, spanning hundreds of lines — and making no sense at all to Ren. He will send them back to Rey, then, and hope that she understands what is being said, being worked out. If this drawer, and _only_ this drawer, is locked, Ren reasons, then there must be something of value hidden inside these antiquated books, within the endless flow of numbers.

Ren catches the faintest flicker of consciousness from outside: the new guards approaching, climbing up the stairs. He shoves the leather books back into the drawer, shuffling them around until they exactly resemble the way they were before. Sliding the drawer closed as quietly as possible, he stops, calms his racing thoughts (seconds wasted), and with relief hears the subtle click of the drawer’s lock falling back into place.

The guards are coming closer now, almost around the corner, as Ren makes a final scan of the room to confirm that everything is as he found it, before closing the door as he exits and —  _click, click, click_  — moving the locks back into place.

He is off before the whirring stops, and around the corner, heading back toward his rooms, before the guards have finished swapping their posts.

*

_Ben, I’m glad that you’re all right._ Leia’s relief is palpable through their bond, helping calm Ren’s still-racing heart. He is fully submerged in warm, bubble-filled water, in the tub in the emperor’s private refresher, just as he is expected to be. The pile of fresh clothes he has retrieved from his room (his excuse for wandering the halls, should anyone have asked) is laid out in a corner. He tilts his head back against the lip of the tub, and sees marble and gold and grandiosity all around him — in stark and surprising contrast to the functional minimalism of the emperor’s outer rooms. The bathtub itself is large enough to fit an entire brothel.

Ren floats, passing on the information that he has learned as quickly as possible before any of it can be lost.

_Thank you, Mother. I’m not sure how much of this will be of use to you, but I found some calculations — locked away, and written by hand, if you can believe it — that I think Rey should take a look at._

_What have you got for me, Kylo?_ Rey, evidently in the room with Leia, jumps into the conversation, eager to help.

_These._ He sends her wave after wave of images, pages and pages of memorized information. _They’re lightyears beyond my abilities, but I’m sure that_ you’ll _be able to work out what they mean._

Rey doesn’t bother replying, but Ren can tell that she is excited, already hard at work as she drops her concentration from their bond.

_And for you, Mother,_ Ren continues, returning his full attention to Leia, _I have some much less interesting documentation._ Now come the petitions, the drafts of laws, the financial records, the sanctions, the training-camp locations: anything and everything that may be of use to their cause.

_This is wonderful, Ben — their expenditures and debts, their planned sanctions, the location and layout of one of their new facilities. If we can take this to Coruscant, get them to side more closely with our cause instead of trying to keep their distance..._ Leia is already running plans and strategies and new diplomatic manoeuvres through her head, trying to find the best way to utilise this new information. _Ben, can you get back inside? Find out more — find out anything you can._

Ren sighs. He sits up in the bath, the water sloshing as he reaches for the shampoo and begins to work it through his hair. _I’ll do my best, but I don’t think that I’ll be able to for some time now. I barely made it this time without being caught when the guards changed shifts; I think it would be wise to lay low for a while, to make sure that no one suspects anything, before I try again._ This all is quite true, evidently, but more than anything, Ren is tired. He has pushed his abilities to his limits today, and, if nothing else, needs some time to recover.

Leia’s voice has softened, more gentle now than before. _Of course. Make sure that you’re safe, Ben. I trust you to know when the time is right; the mission is worth far less than your safety, and anyway, this is more than enough to work with for the moment._

Ren feels his body relax, not even aware that it had tensed up during their exchange. _Thank you, Mother._ He dips his head back to rinse it, and then surfaces again, smoothing back his hair. _I think that I should get some rest before the emperor needs me. I’ll be in touch again as soon as I have something to report._ Inspecting his hands, he can see the pads of his fingers already beginning to prune.

_Of course, Ben. I love you._

_I love you, too, Mother._

_What about me, cousin dearest?_ Rey’s voice is loud in his mind, startling Ren so that he nearly slips as he clambers out of the deep, smooth-sided tub.

_I’m sure Finn and Poe love you enough for the rest of us,_ he retorts, half-griping, as he regains his footing and steps onto the bathmat, reaching to wrap a towel around himself.

_Oh, they do, I assure you._ The wave of affection in Rey’s voice, ever-present when she speaks of her dear boys, soothes Ren even more; he can practically see her teasing grin. _But before you drop off to sleep, you spoiled brat — isn’t it the middle of the day, where you are? — Poe wanted me to tell you that the calculations you found aren’t going to be of much use yet._

_Why not?_ Ren is slightly disappointed, having hoped that his coup de grâce had, in fact, been one.

_The only things that make sense to him so far are the equations determining the interior volume and area of a small planet. It’s impossible to know which one, or what the information is for,_ Rey explains. _I_ _t may not even be a real planet, either — it could just be a theoretical exercise — but whatever the case, the calculations are meticulous. Brilliant, even; all perfect, as far as I could tell. If anyone else but your_ emperor _had done them, I would say that I was impressed._

Ren can hear the sardonic twist of her mouth. He ignores the curious flutter in his stomach at the sound of “your emperor”.

_Thank you, Rey, for addressing those so quickly — and do thank Poe for his help, too,_ Leia tells her, over the bond for Ren’s benefit.

_Anything for you, Aunt Leia._ There is a small pause, in which Ren can only assume they have said something out loud to each other. _Right, then; sleep tight, princess,_ Rey tells Ren cheerily. He rolls his eyes, although she can’t see it. _Go back to living the high life. The real experts are at work now._

Ren tells her, in no uncertain terms, what she can do with her expertise; and amidst Leia’s clucks of disapproval and Rey’s infectious, unoffended laughter, they allow the bond to fade. He smiles, missing them _._

_*_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings this week for animal death/mild gore.

*

The court goes hunting some days later, just as Ykara had warned Ren they eventually would. The forest swallows them, looming trees and damp earth muffling the sounds of the party’s movements through the undergrowth. Ren is seated where the rest are on foot, touted inside of a covered speeder like a prize on display, his back straight and his eyes fixed on the emperor’s profile.

Hux is walking at the head of the party, his uniform pressed and pristine even after hours out in the royal hunting grounds, a select cohort of courtiers trailing in his wake. His jaw is tense, his teeth grinding tighter and tighter as the minutes tick by. On his right side, Phasma is attentive and alert, her eyes scanning the bush for any sign of danger and picking up on the smallest movements in the underbrush as they track the herd of gualamas through the forest.

They have made no progress yet, choosing to pass up weaker animals in pursuit of the final prize. Ren can sense the gualamas slowly picking their way through the forest ahead, unaware of what is approaching. There is one straggler, hurt, and struggling to maintain the same speed as the rest of the pack. It is falling behind, the gap between the two groups lengthening ever more rapidly.

It pains Ren, being out in the forest, killing uselessly, hunting for sport; but he knows this is something that is expected of the royal family, something that Hux’s father brought to Arkanis when he built up his empire — a way to relive glory days on the field of battle, to relieve stress and revel in the bloodshed of the innocent.

Ren can remember, from when he was a child, rumors swirling everywhere, of traitors to the Empire disappearing into the night, hunted down like animals. It is an odd thought to recall, and he doesn’t believe it any more now than he did then; but still, the forest gives him a strange feeling, of death and hopelessness, like a prison that can never be escaped.

To Ren’s left Ykara adjusts herself in her seat. Her skirt crunches beneath her as she shifts, the barely-perceptible sound making Phasma eye the both of them with disdain. Ykara’s formidable beauty seems dampened by the chill of the outdoors; Ren is concerned, for he has never seen her in anything less than a perfectly-polished condition. A strand of hair slips from the pile of rose-tinged bronze atop her head, and the kohl that rings her eyes is hardly producing its usual dramatic effect. Even her dress — heavy, pleated black silk, lined warmly with fur — looks as though it has been creased one too many times.

Ren leans over to her. “Is something the matter?”

Ykara shakes her head, dismissive. “I told you, child; I have never enjoyed these outings. I had hoped never to have to endure them again, after the emperor’s passing, but the prince has seen fit to carry on the tradition.” She sighs. “You had best get used to it.”

Ren winces. “Perhaps I can convince His Majesty to find some alternative form of entertainment for the court,” he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyebrows conspiratorially. “I've found I can be rather persuasive.”

Ykara laughs. “How charitable of you,” she says. “To put your skills to such a use. You are too good to me.”

The two exchange a dry smile — and then suddenly a shot rings out through the silence of the forest, making Ren swivel quickly in his seat, leaning out the window to see what has happened. Beside him, Ykara barely moves.

A pile of black and yellow feathers flutters almost out of Ren’s field of view: a twitching heap of beak and bone and blood splattering across the forest floor — but still alive, somehow, moving in a shuddering mass. A pitiful, agonised squawk splits through the trees as the carriage comes to a halt.

Ren leans farther out, confused. No one makes a move to end the bird’s suffering as it shakes across the damp leaves, a living earthquake of pain. Ren can feel the choppy, rapid pulse of the animal like a second heartbeat in his mind. He feels slightly sick.

“What’s happening?” Ren asks, glancing back toward Ykara before staring again at the creature. There is a ripple of noise from the courtiers, and a man from the back of the group moves forward. “Why won’t someone just put it out of its misery?”

“They are following tradition,” Ykara says simply. She indicates the man who’d stepped up: “He shot at the bird and did not kill it; it is only logical that he must now be the one to end its life. Such is the way here, with hunting, with executions, with war. The emperor believed that if you began a movement — if you passed judgement on what lived and what died — than you finished it as well.”

“But the bird — it’s suffering,” Ren blurts out, feeling its pain shudder through him, its fear.

“Of course it is.” Ykara turns a circumspect gaze on him, unimpressed by his sentiment. “But who cares for the feelings of a mere Barbary-bird when you can teach a man discipline and ruthless, heartless commitment?” she asks crisply.

The man who shot the bird is young: blond hair and cream-coffee skin, green eyes wide with concentration. He crouches down beside the pile of yellow feathers (growing ever redder), whispering quiet nothings into the forest air as he reaches for what remains of the poor animal. There is a dark haze around him, something Ren has not seen since he caught a glimpse of the man who killed his father: a sinister aura, like an ink-stain in the Force, that shadows a man in his most brutal moments, when he dares to take another’s life. Ren shivers to see it.

A white-gloved hand reaches forward, wrapping around the bird’s neck; and though Ren closes his eyes at the sharp flick of the man’s wrist, he can still hear the Barbary’s last pitiful squawks and then the snap of its neck over the gentle thud of rain upon the forest floor. Hux, standing back from the scene, nods slightly to his courtier when the young man, nervous, looks to him, the corpse clutched in one hand. The killer exhales with relief: he has done what is required of him, and his emperor approves.

There is a further mutter of approval from the group as the bird is dropped unceremoniously back onto the wet leaves. The speeder lurches forward again, and Ren watches, disgusted, as the Barbary is left discarded on the ground, waiting to be picked over in the night.

The rain picks up, and the small measure of sunlight that has managed to filter through the thick canopy dims even further as they make their way deeper into the woods: the bush thicker, the tree-trunks wider, the leaves greener than anything that Ren has seen before, even on the verdant Naboo.

They are closer than ever to the gualamas’ herd, and Ren wishes that he had some way to warn them of their approaching deaths, that they had somehow managed to heed the calls of the dying Barbary-bird, left far behind them now, its warnings forever silenced. But alas, this is not to be; and they draw nearer and nearer to the herd, until the injured doe that Ren had sensed earlier is mere metres ahead of them, still hidden by trees and bush and the misty downpour that seems to eternally permeate this planet’s air.

Their speeder is brought to a halt once more. In wordless synchrony Hux and Phasma move forward into the trees, silent and alone and ready for the kill, the other courtiers hanging back so as not to scare off the emperor’s prey. They disappear from Ren’s view, but he can still make out the black tendrils, only visible to him, that hang in the air where they have just been.

He sits, quiet and tense, Ykara unaffected beside him, as he feels the change in the Force: the panic of the injured gualama, the pulsing energy of the blaster bolt, Hux’s victorious elation — so different from the apathetic sense of duty that has pervaded his thoughts since the beginning of the excursion. The animal is on the ground and dying, slow, fighting for each breath, and Ren hangs so far out of the speeder window that he is able to make out the faint image of Hux lowering his left arm, his shooting arm, stiff and unyielding, as Phasma kneels at the majestic creature’s side.

The gualama is twitching, her legs jerking in a strange parody of a run, her breathing fast and uneven. A minute passes, two, and she is still alive, her eyes bright and blinking and clinging onto the life she has no right to claim any longer. Hux’s shoulders slump — a fraction of a second — and then he takes the knife that Phasma is silently holding out to him. He kneels too, and pulls the dappled neck back, back, back (the animal’s resistance weak, waning) until the blade bites into the creature’s flesh, cutting through fur and muscle and sinew, slicing apart bronchioles and arteries and veins, until the blood comes rushing out in a dark river, foaming up where it meets the damp air.

Hux rests there, on his knees, longer than he has to. His leather gloves are darker now, oily and stained, his boots caked with muddy, bloody leaves. Finally, after what feels to Ren like forever — when the gualama is long dead and the air around Hux has faded back to its normal, brighter cast — Hux stands, and steps back from the body, looking on as Phasma moves closer and begins, deftly, to skin the animal.

For a moment Hux glances back, toward the carriage, toward Ren still leaning out of the window. He gives him a searching look — aware that Ren has seen what he’s done, perhaps looking for praise — but when he receives no reaction, his brow briefly furrows (does Ren read a flash of shame in his eyes?), and then he looks away. Ren pulls his head back inside and tries to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his gut, the pain of the dying animals heavy on his mind.

*

Later, when the pale red fingers of the sun have sunk below the horizon and Ren lies — wiping his mouth, sweat cooling on his body — beside Hux, his mind drifts back to earlier hours: to Hux’s clenched jaw and stiff back and the sharp line of his arm as the gualama crumpled to the ground metres from where she had been shot, her body twitching, refusing to die. And after, when they’d split the creature open (blood spilling onto the damp forest floor, steam rising from the inside of the animal) — Hux watching, doing nothing to help, but making sure that nothing was ruined, that no trophy was spoiled as his captain peeled the beautiful animal apart.

Ren recalls the feeling, the overwhelming wave of duty and doubt that had poured from Hux in those final moments when he’d slit open the gualama’s throat, blood pouring over his hands as he waited, resigned, for the creature to die.

He feels Hux shifting beside him, slipping his feet from the sheets and moving to adjust himself on the bed, clearly sated, now, and ignoring Ren. This is, as usual, Ren’s cue to leave. He lifts himself from the bed, skin prickling with the cold as he moves around the room naked, gathering his garments and slipping them back on. His eyes shift toward the emperor, resting there a moment longer than they should.

Hux levels him with a cool look. “Have you forgotten the way to the door, by chance?”

His tone is mocking, hard, and Ren almost backs down, almost backs off, but then: “May I ask you a question, my lord?”

Hux arches an eyebrow, but waits.

It is silent acquiescence, Ren hopes, and he ploughs forward before he can lose his courage. “Out there, earlier — you did not seem to be enjoying yourself.” He stops short, biting back his frustration when he cannot decide how to continue.

Hux sneers. “Has my loyal servant already learned to read me so well?” he asks, sharp.

Ren has hit a wound, intruded where he shouldn’t have. “I’m sorry,” he backpedals, trying to repair what he may have ruined: what little, tenuous connection they have built so far. “I didn’t mean to offend you, my lord.” He bows his head, waiting for Hux to lash out again in his anger.

But he is met with silence; and this silence only grows, expanding until it smothers the entire room. Seconds tick by in Ren’s head, flickers of time that feel like hours and weeks and years. _What have I done?_

Finally Hux expels, reluctant, but as if needing to unburden himself all the same: “I have always felt that, should I ever find myself in combat, in a real war, I would be among the first to die.”

This is not what Ren had expected. There is something new in Hux’s voice, something he has never heard before: something open, raw. Ren lifts his bowed head, slowly, and takes in the sight before him. Hux sits up, now, propped against the head of the bed with the blankets pulled around his slim shoulders, and his eyes have taken him off to some faraway land, some faraway memory.

“It is the custom of my people — the legacy I must uphold — that keeps me on these hunts. A waste of time, a waste of money; the courtiers’ pandering that my father so enjoyed; and all along I am reminded that they would not dare lay their lives before mine on the battlefield, that they do not wish to protect me as they would have my father.”

Hux’s voice is cool, but an anger simmers below the surface; Ren is not sure he even knows to whom he is speaking anymore. It is like a curtain has suddenly been ripped away, a godly mantle peeled from the shoulders of a man who is mortal after all. The man Hux once had been — the fragile son of the first Emperor Hux, near-crushed under the weight of his own upbringing but always hungering, desperate, for power of his own, for a life outside the shadows; desperate enough, perhaps, to do _anything_ to gain his empire and keep it — is coming back to life.

Ren cannot accustom himself to this abrupt metamorphosis. Hux seems more human, now, than he ever has before, and his sudden vulnerability goes against everything that Ren knows about him, everything he had believed to be true.

“That’s not true.” Ren speaks suddenly, and though he wants to take back the words as soon as they slip past his lips, he knows there is no turning back now. He cannot place whence this new urge, this fierce desire to alleviate Hux’s fears, has come.

Hux is eyeing him sharply now, thrown back into his body after minutes lost in reflection and apparently waiting for Ren to say more, to prove something to him. _Well?_

“You have Phasma by your side,” Ren reminds him with haste. “She has always been loyal. She would protect you from anything.”

Hux nods impatiently. “Phasma is the most devoted of subjects, but she is only one among many. Is it not sad, not worthy of shame, that I have cultivated my power to such a degree, and can garner to my side only _one_ of thousands?” He gives a scoff. “If we were to enter into battle? To stand before an enemy’s forces? When the blaster-bolts fired and bodies crumpled down around me, from how many of those shots could she truly protect me?”

He is agitated now, biting down on his lip as he fights to voice his doubts, locked for so long in the catacombs of his heart: bones and skulls of ancient fears, arranged in a pattern of ambition artfully constructed to hide his weaknesses.

“Who am I against my father, in my people’s eyes?” Hux expels at last. There: the crux.

Ren studies Hux’s face. He finds he needs to say something. “Well, _I_ would protect you in battle. I’d take a thousand blaster bolts for you.” It comes out joking, too light-hearted by far; but Ren knows that, in this moment, he means it.

He can tell that Hux knows this, too.

The emperor seems to come down a little from his cold, private rage. He smiles slightly at Ren’s earnest, ill-timed jest, although it does not quite reach his eyes. At once Hux stands from the bed and pads toward Ren where he stands, pausing mere centimetres from him, his breath ghosting across Ren’s lips.

“Have you ever wondered why I brought you here? Why I would let an outsider into my court, into my home, into my _bed?”_

Ren swallows. It is like whiplash, the speed with which Hux has changed direction. He hesitates before answering: “For your — amusement, my lord.”

“But to stage it so publicly, my quest for the perfect whore? Surely you don’t think that _you_ are so special as to be the only one in the _galaxy_ who might bring me pleasure,” Hux says with acid disdain. Ren flinches. “I could have found a whore, _any_ whore, in the brothels of my own domain, and bent them to my will; but I chose _this_ instead. To flaunt my power, to win my people’s trust: to enhance my image in their eyes.

“That _you,_ Ren, are of Naboo, that stronghold of the Republic; that you are beholden to me utterly; that you have freely entered into my kingdom and submitted to my whims —  _this_ is what I was after. I have conquered you entirely, taken hold of your freedom — and all so that my people will respect me, will put their faith in me without my having to go to war.”

Hux has said all this in an impassioned whisper, the words hanging in the air for Ren to examine one by one. They float in the quiet that follows Hux’s admission. Ren has known, from the moment that he willingly became a pawn of the Resistance, that — even if he were chosen — he would never be the most skilled, nor the most handsome, most demure. He will never be, would never have been, the _most — but perhaps I am enough._

(He is hurt, fleetingly, by the notion that he is a pawn for the emperor as well — but beyond that brief moment, he finds he cannot bring himself to mind; cannot bring himself to truly care.)

It matters not what has brought him into Hux’s bed. It matters only, now, that he is here, and that he wants to be.

He turns to Hux, hesitant, fumbling for the words to express how he feels; but he does not need to. The emperor sees it in his eyes, and a slow, predatory grin crosses his face. Ren catches his breath.

And now they are kissing, Hux forcing Ren back toward the bed. Ren falls onto his back, Hux hovering, dominant, over him. The moments — hours — that follow are harsh, rough, and Ren revels in every minute. He has seen the depths of Hux’s confession, its magnitude, and if this is how Hux must take back control, must fight back his demons, then Ren will do this for him — for them.

*

Already Ren has been on Arkanis more than a month, and by now they have established a routine. After dinner, Ren and Hux retire together to Hux’s rooms, where Ren proves — or hopes he does — why he has come, and why he is worth his keep.

Tonight, as they sat and ate with the court, Hux had been distracted by some business with a trade agreement falling through, and had retired in an irritable mood; but Ren used the Force, subtly, easily, to soften his anger and heighten his desire, and now Hux’s thoughts are only of him.

“A glass of wine, Ren,” Hux had ordered when they came in, and gestured to the small liquor-cabinet in the corner of the room. Ren hurried to it:

“Which, my lord?”

Hux considers. “There is an Old Imperial red I’ve been saving.” He smiled — “Tonight, I think” — and that was when Ren first knew that things were to be different, tonight. He could not deny the fizz of anticipation that zipped down his spine as he poured the emperor a glass of the ruby-coloured wine, their fingers brushing as he passed him the glass. “Thank you, Ren,” Hux said, and smiled at him over the rim of the glass.

Now they are sitting on the bed, still fully clothed, and kissing, Ren’s hand on Hux’s chest, Hux’s fingers in Ren’s hair. Hux’s mouth tastes decadent. After overcoming his preoccupations from dinner, no doubt with the help of the wine — and needing no further prompting from the Force; Ren has withdrawn from his head, his actions are all his own now — Hux has been keen and zealous in his affections, kissing Ren hard, open-mouthed and insistent. Ren receives them eagerly, gasping against his mouth when the emperor takes his bottom lip between his teeth, letting out a soft whine when Hux reaches down to stroke the growing bulge between his thighs.

They continue in this vein for some time, Hux’s hands roaming brazenly, Ren arching into his touches and letting a wanton flush come to his cheeks. His hair is in disarray from Hux’s hands fisting in it; he imagines he looks a perfect whore. When Hux nips at his throat he opens his mouth and gives a pretty moan. _Now I sound one, too._

At some point the emperor pulls back and looks at him with a naked hunger that Ren has never seen before. His gaze, as ever, seems to delve deep into Ren’s soul, as if it were the emperor and not Ren who possessed the power to read emotions and thoughts. But although Ren _can_ read minds, he thinks it is safer to ask, his voice husky and inviting, “What next, my lord? What would you like?”

In lieu of giving him an answer, Hux begins — slowly, deliberately — to peel off his gloves. Ren’s eyes are drawn to the bare pale sliver between their cuffs and those of his jacket. He sees the blue veins there, through the delicate, near-translucent skin, and imagines bending his lips to them, marking that vulnerable place. A shiver runs through him. Hux, aware that Ren’s watching, pulls off the last finger and folds the gloves neatly, lays them aside. He gives a foxlike smile:

“What would _you_ like, Ren? Do you like to fuck, or do you like to be fucked? If you have the choice,” Hux says casually. “If it’s not up to your client, but to you.”

His frankness, his total and surprising lack of shame, sends more heat blooming to Ren’s cheeks. When he hesitates, embarrassed, the emperor adds, “I do assume you’ve done both.”

Ren nods. He is not lying; whore or no, he has had experience both ways. But he still cannot bring himself to tell Hux, in so many words, what he wants, and so stays mute, lips pressed tight with a queer prudishness.

Hux prods him: “Well?”

“I like to be fucked,” Ren says finally, flushing still deeper. Heat floods his groin as he says the words out loud.

Hux’s eyebrows arch, and Ren picks up the spike of surprise in his emotions. He’d expected, Ren is not surprised to see, that due to Ren’s bulk, to his size, he would prefer to be the one in control; but in fact the opposite is true.

A smile slips across Hux’s face as he absorbs this new information. “Well, then,” the emperor says, a purring undertone to his voice, “I do think we’ll get on quite well, tonight.”

A wave of arousal sears through Ren at his words. _The mission, the mission, it’s only for the mission,_ he checks himself sternly; but he cannot suppress his desire. He shivers, looking up at Hux with what he is sure are eyes wide with helpless lust. “How do you want me?”

Hux considers — one thumb sweeps over his lips — and then decides: “Strip down, and lie on your back.”

Ren hurries to comply. While he is removing his clothes, Hux disappears into the refresher. Ren puts a pillow under his head and another under the small of his back and lies down to wait for him. He thinks to begin preparing himself, but doesn’t want to do anything without Hux’s express permission: although he has made it this far, one false step — in bed or anywhere — could undo all his progress and jeopardise the mission.

When Hux returns, he is stripped nude and his hands are full; as he approaches the bed, Ren sees he carries lubricant, protection, and a small towel. “I know you were just tested,” Hux says by way of explanation, seeing Ren’s curious gaze, setting down the bottle, cloth, and sheaths on the bedside table, “and I myself am fastidious; I do find I enjoy myself better without anything in the way, but if you would prefer —?”

“No, sir,” Ren says, shaking his head. “As you wish.”

Hux’s eyes glimmer, pleased. He nods. “We shan’t bother with these, then.” He stows the box in the bedside drawer. “But this —”

He uncaps the bottle, and makes to squeeze gel onto his palm, but then stops. “Would you rather do it yourself?” he asks, genteelly.

“Whatever you like, my lord.”

“Very well.” Hux carries on, slicking up two fingers and then looking at Ren, a question in his eyes:

“Another,” Ren answers almost shyly.

Hux’s lips curve up with pleasure. He slicks a third.

Before being asked to, Ren spreads his legs for him, and Hux kneels between them. “I’ll go slowly,” he promises him. “Has it been some time?”

“Yes, sir,” Ren tells him, in this moment not bothering to stay true to his act. “A while.” For Kylo it has been years, but Hux will never believe this of Ren. He hopes he will be gentle, but too feels a thrill run through him at the thought of being fucked again, even if it’s rough.

“I’ll be very careful.” Hux smiles, a quick sweet thing, surprising — and then, gently, slides one finger inside of Ren.

He gasps, clenching instinctively around the intrusion but quickly relaxes; the feeling is instantly familiar, even, almost, pleasant.

“All right?” Hux asks him, more attentive than Ren would have guessed, and Ren nods. He settles around Hux’s finger.

“Another,” he requests; and, his eyes glinting, Hux complies.

“The third.”

Hux complies.

Ren rests a moment once all three are inside him, feeling the strain and stretch, the lubricant cool against his sensitive skin. Hux does not move, his eyes on Ren’s face, waiting to see how he feels — and again, this surprises Ren; _I did not think him the type of man to take his time._ He nods, answering a question Hux has not asked aloud; and Hux moves his fingers inside of him.

A hum builds deep in Ren’s chest as Hux fucks him, slowly, with his fingers, stretching him open and grazing that sweetest spot inside of him, just barely; Ren sighs, and arches into his hand, his cock bobbing against his stomach.

“Is that good, Ren?” Hux murmurs, working his hand. “Tell me.”

Ren nods. “Yes,” he answers, finding his voice low and rough. “Yes.” It has been too long since he’s had someone else inside of him; the attentions of one’s own hands grow tiresome, in time. Ren wants more, and says so. “Will you —” he begins. “Will you fuck me now? Please?”

Hux’s eyebrows arch again, pleased to find him ready so quickly; _but then, he is a whore,_ Ren can almost hear him thinking. “If you’d like,” he says coyly, his lips curving. He slides his fingers out of Ren, and gestures: “On all fours.”

Ren hurries to sit up and assume the new position as Hux slicks his cock, generously, with gel. Looking down, though his spread legs, Ren watches him. His heart beats fast in anticipation; the Force hums dormant at the back of his mind. He does not need to pry to find out what Hux is feeling, now.

The emperor turns back to him, his slim slick cock held in one hand. “Are you ready, Ren?” His voice is soft.

Ren nods, and nods again. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

Hux smiles. He lines himself up behind Ren, and enters him.

 _“Ah.”_ Ren cannot help but gasp as the emperor slides inside him, even well-primed as he is. He shivers as Hux pushes deeper in, slow and easy still, and then cries aloud as in one fluid movement he enters him fully, the thatch of his hair brushing the skin of Ren’s cheeks. “My lord,” Ren says, breath hitching. _“Oh.”_

“Is that good, Ren? Do you like that?” Hux’s voice from behind is smooth and cool.

Ren nods. His cock strains against his stomach. “Touch me,” he blurts, forgetting etiquette. “Please. Please, sir.”

“Greedy,” Hux murmurs, but it is less a reprimand than a sound of satisfaction: Ren can almost see that feline smile. He reaches around Ren’s torso — his ribs that tremble with his shallow breathing — and wraps his hand around his cock.

“Thank you,” Ren gasps out, as Hux begins to stroke at the same time as he thrusts into him, slow and rhythmic. _He’s good at this, too._ “You feel — you feel so good.”

“Do you like that? Do you like me inside you, my hand on your cock?” Hux leans forward, pushing deeper still inside of Ren (he shudders and moans), and nuzzles, nips at his shoulder and ear. His hand moves confidently between Ren’s legs. “That lovely cock of yours,” Hux murmurs into Ren’s skin as he strokes him. “So ready for me, so hard. My little slut and his perfect cock.”

Ren moans aloud. Hux kisses the juncture of his shoulder and neck, and then bites down, hard: Ren yelps, but his surprise is quickly replaced with a tremor of arousal as Hux sucks a bruise into the tender skin and then washes his tongue over it, delicate and teasing. Though he knows he shouldn’t, Ren thrills at the thought of being marked like this: _being owned._ “More, my lord,” he pleads, his voice shaking. He fears he will not last much longer, and yet he craves all Hux will give him. “More. Please.”

“Turn over,” Hux requests suddenly, his voice low. “I would see you.”

He pulls out of Ren, leaving him gasping. Quickly Ren rolls onto his back, dropping his legs wide. Hux, high on his knees, his cock standing up against his flat freckle-scattered stomach, looks down at him with lust-darkened eyes, and guides himself inside Ren again, leaning down to press himself against him as he does.

Ren arches his hips up to meet him, and exhales with pleasure as Hux hits that sweetest spot from a new angle. Feeling loose, close to the edge, he closes his eyes, tosses one arm across his forehead — dips into Hux’s head to see how he looks — but he hardly needs to, for Hux tells him next moment, “So pretty like this, when you’re being fucked. No wonder you like it, you’re lovely like this, lovely for me…”

“May I come for you?” Ren murmurs, his hand moving between his legs to where his cock is trapped between their bodies **—**  it will not take long, he knows, only a few strokes — but Hux reaches it first.

“Let me.” He leans down and kisses Ren as he strokes him to climax.

Ren cries out against his wine-kissed mouth, and shudders as he comes, hard, spilling over Hux’s hand. “My lord,” he breathes, his neck arching, “oh, my lord, my lord —”

“Hux,” the emperor commands him, his hand still moving on Ren’s cock. “Say my name, Ren. I want to hear it.”

 _“Hux,”_ Ren says breathlessly. His body clenches around the emperor’s cock as the last of his orgasm courses through him. “Oh, Hux.”

At this, the emperor comes too, still inside of Ren. Ren watches as Hux’s eyes shut, his lips part: _“Ah,”_ he exhales, and Ren shivers and gasps again as he feels his spend filling him. Hux grinds his hips into Ren until he has finished — “Ren, _Ren,”_ he says — and then slowly, carefully, slides out of him.

Ren lets himself sink into the mattress, his skin singing. “Thank you, my lord,” he murmurs.

Hux lies down next to him and gives a contented sigh. “You did very well,” he tells him. He reaches for the towel, placed at the bedside in readiness, and cleans himself with it before offering it to Ren, who takes it and does the same. “Thank you, Ren.”

Ren rolls over onto his side, looks up at him: “Shall I go now?” he asks, assuming that, as usual, he will be dismissed, and called for again when he is needed tomorrow. He props himself on one elbow, ready to get out of bed, fetch his discarded clothes, and leave in respectful silence.

But Hux, instead of nodding and bidding him goodnight, thinks for a moment, and then languorously shakes his head. “No, Ren,” he says, stretching one arm above his head: Ren watches the play of the lean muscles underneath the pale skin. “You may stay the night.”

Ren’s heart gives a leap. Surely the emperor would not extend such an invitation if he did not trust Ren — if he had not begun to, at least. _Enough not to kill him in his sleep._ He smiles, trying to look humble and flattered, and says, “Thank you, sir.”

“Hux,” the emperor corrects him again. “You may call me Hux — when we are alone, at least.” He drops his arm from where he’d stretched it to trace lazy fingers over Ren’s bare back and shoulder-blades.

Ren leans into his touch. “Hux,” he repeats, savouring the word, the privilege it is.

When Hux shifts to indicate that he may, Ren pillows his head on the emperor’s chest, draping one arm carefully over his torso. Hux pulls the sumptuous covers over them one-handed, and drags gentle fingers through Ren’s thick hair, sending a warm current of pleasure from his scalp all down his spine. “Time for bed, I think,” Hux murmurs, glancing at the comlink on his wrist. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

Ren’s eyes had slid closed, but he opens them now. “We do?”

“Yes, Ren. I’m going into town, and I’d like you to come with me.”

Ren smiles against the emperor’s warm bare skin. “I’d be honoured,” he murmurs, and is rewarded with what he thinks is a brush of Hux’s lips against his hair.

“Good.” Hux moves his head, calls to the lighting system: “Zero percent.” The room darkens; Hux’s chin nestles again into Ren’s hair. “Sleep well, Ren.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

*

When Ren wakes, warm, the next morning, it is to the softest of sounds: the irregular susurrus of skin on skin; a gentle hitching of breath. At first he thinks he is still dreaming, but he opens his eyes, and looks around him in the early-morning light — they will have a clear day today; already the sun is shining, coming hazy through the drapes — and finds Hux awake next to him.

The emperor lounges back against the headboard, naked, with his cock in hand.

His head is tipped back, his breathing relaxed and heavy as he strokes himself, his slim wrist working elegantly. His eyes are closed; a half-smile plays on his lips.

Ren is awake at once. His own cock, its morning stiffness encouraged by this unexpected sight, swells to life. He shifts closer to Hux, rolling over in bed, and murmurs, “My lord?”

Lazily, the emperor opens his sea-green eyes. “Good morning, Ren,” he says, stroking languidly down his own shaft. That teasing smile widens. “Sleep well?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Ren answers. He cannot take his eyes from Hux’s pale hand on the rosy skin of his cock. “And you?”

“Very well,” Hux answers. He spreads his legs, just slightly, and Ren can see the pinkness, the shine between them. “I woke early, as you see, and I thought perhaps since you did so well last night, you might do me another favour now,” he adds, his tone somewhere between coy and commanding. He smiles, glancing down. “I’ve gotten started for you.”

Ren shivers. His cock begins to leak. “Yes, sir,” he says. “Of course. What — what would you like?”

In answer, Hux ceases touching himself. “Sit up,” he tells Ren, and, once he has, he climbs smoothly into Ren’s lap. Ren gasps, unable to stop himself, when Hux’s cock brushes his. “I want that handsome cock inside of me,” the emperor tells him, matter-of-fact, and again Ren feels his skin prickle with helpless desire at the note of command in his voice. “I want you to fuck me, Ren.”

Ren’s lips part, wordless, as he nods, and nods again. “Do we need —?” he begins to ask, glancing to the drawer, but Hux shakes his head:

“I’ve taken the liberty myself.”

“Do you think you’ll be able…?”

“Yes, Ren.” Hux’s smile is arch, assured.

Ren swallows. No one has taken him in so long, too long; he had not thought he missed it but now his body screams for it. He grips his cock with one hand, strokes it to full hardness, and then places his hands, lightly, on the emperor’s hips, before he realises he should have asked permission. His hands fly from Hux’s skin: “May I touch you?” he blurts, wincing, ashamed to have forgotten his place.

Hux laughs. “Yes, Ren. That’s why you’re here.” He takes Ren’s hands and puts them back on his waist. He shifts up onto his knees, spreading them wider, and then asks, “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Ren looks him, hesitant, in the eyes. “Tell me — tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Keeping his eyes fixed on Ren’s, Hux lowers himself onto his cock.

Ren gives a moan as soon as he enters him. Hux is well-stretched around him: the thought of him opening himself, taking two fingers, perhaps three, more, as Ren slept oblivious beside him is almost too erotic to bear. The fact that he’d _waited,_ bringing himself hard, anticipating, fills Ren with a deep and unnameable current of lust — he is being used, he knows, but how sweetly; and how well he has done already, to find the emperor wanting him again so soon…

With exhalations from low in his throat, his sharp handsome features barely straining, Hux seats himself fully on Ren’s cock. “There,” he murmurs with clear satisfaction, tilting his head like a cat.

Ren is astounded. The emperor is so slight, so delicate, Ren had feared to break him — but here he is — and how good he feels, slick to take him, hot and close around his cock. Ren stares at his own hands, so large, olive-skinned and dotted here and there with scars, wrapped around Hux’s waist. They nearly encircle it. Impossibly he feels himself grow harder still, inside him.

Hux murmurs, shifts. “Fuck me,” he commands him, his voice loose and hazy.

“Yes, sir.” Ren swallows. “Can you — move for me?”

Placing his own hands atop Ren’s on his waist, Hux lifts himself up just barely, breathing a slow hiss as he does; and then, with the help of a roll of Ren’s hips up to meet him, lowers himself back down. He exhales, his eyes fluttering closed: “Good,” he murmurs, writhing down further, shuddering when Ren’s cock hits that sweetest spot. _“Oh._ Good.”

“You feel so good, my lord,” Ren whispers, just as last night but how different now, as Hux fucks himself on him once again, rising up and coming down slow. The weak daylight illumes Hux’s eyelashes, turning them pale gold against his cheeks; his hair is ablaze with light like a halo. Ren’s hands grip him tighter.

He fucks the emperor slowly, without hurry. Hux hums and gives soft moans, his hands coming up to drape, negligent and possessive, around the back of Ren’s neck. Ren can feel his orgasm building gradually, but he does not rush to come; it feels like they have all the time in the world. His skin is warm, almost hot still from sleep, and if this is a dream, he thinks, he does not want to wake. _I have done well. I have done well. I have done well._

Hux leans closer to him, and captures Ren’s mouth in a slow sultry kiss. Ren opens his lips for him, feels his tongue slip inside; they kiss long and deep, Hux sucking keenly on Ren’s bottom lip, his hands coming up to fist in his hair. Ren follows his mouth eagerly without breaking contact, kissing him as if they never had to come up for air.

His pleasure rises to a slow crest, and then breaks like a wave over him. He shudders, he comes inside Hux — the emperor’s lips never leave his — “Hux,” Ren murmurs, “Hux, Hux, Hux” — and then Hux comes too, clenching around Ren, and Ren fumbles for his cock and strokes him through his climax, feels him spill warm and thick over his hand, and holds him until he goes soft under his fingers.

Once they have both finished, they kiss for a few moments more, unhurried still. The sun has risen now, and its warmth touches their skin lightly through the viewports. Ren is perfectly content. But still, after he does not know how long, he asks tentatively, “Must we be rising, soon?”

Hux, still straddling him, gives a noise of displeasure against his neck where he had bent to mouth down it. “Yes,” he sighs, “soon — the empire awaits…” He laughs to himself, sucks briefly on Ren’s earlobe. “So responsible of you,” he tells Ren, and moves carefully to climb from his lap. He stands from the bed and goes to the wardrobe. “Join me in the shower?”

Ren smiles. “Yes,” he says — too eagerly: Hux laughs, but not unkindly. Ren flushes, and smiles at him, and climbs out of bed. “My clothes,” he starts, realising, but Hux holds up a hand:

“I’ll call a droid. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

Ren obliges. He washes his skin — dirty now from last night and this morning — with water at the sink, and then steps into the shower and turns the sonics on high. In a few moments, Hux does the same, and then joins him there. The sonic waves pulse gently over their skin — that thrumming, rippling feeling — and in a few moments, the cycle ends. Ren sighs, feeling the almost-relief that always comes with a sonic shower: _enough,_ but not quite.

Hux steps out first, and takes a dressing-gown from a hook on the door, wrapping it around himself before producing a towel for Ren, for modesty’s sake alone. He takes it and ties it round his waist. “There are fresh clothes for you in the bedroom,” Hux tells him, going to the sink and preparing to clean his teeth. “Get dressed and wait for me; I shan’t be long.”

“Yes, sir.” Before Ren goes to do as he is bid, he takes a chance, and stops at Hux’s side, lays a hand on his waist; Hux turns to him, toothbrush in one hand, and accepts the kiss Ren drops at the side of his mouth.

“Go on,” he chides him, but his voice is warm. “Dress warmly.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ren smiles, and leaves him.

#### *

They are at the docks in the city, the sharp sea breeze biting through Ren’s thick layers of clothing, more than he ever has to wear at home. Hux is beside him, speaking with one of the many fish-merchants who line the roadside, hawking the morning’s catch at passersby.

By the time they have finished in the marketplace — testing products and comparing prices and listening to complaints — the sun is high above the ocean, managing to slip through the grey cast of clouds in pale slants of light. Hux has assured Ren that this is their last stop in town before they can return to the palace.

Ren has never seen Hux like this before, out among his people, concern (or the closest thing to concern that Ren thinks Hux is able to feel) evident in his every conversation. At every stop they have made, Phasma has maintained her post some distance from them, keeping an eye on their surroundings, but never seeming to take her eyes from Ren’s person as well as her master’s. (Ren will not be going anywhere — he _cannot_ go anywhere — but she does not know that.)

Hux smiles at the weatherbeaten man before him, opening up his arms to catch the large fish that is suddenly draped across them. He hefts the heavy weight into the air, holding it away from the front of his uniform, but takes the offering nonetheless, pleased (or at least not as disgusted by the salt scent and the shining scales as Ren would have thought), before thanking the man and turning to leave for the next stall. He hands off the mackerel off to the nearest guard as he goes.  

He’s almost… sweet, like this; curiously provincial, a different man entirely than when seated on his throne. It is almost _human_ , the way that Hux is acting, and it makes Ren wonder whence this new and undiscovered side of the emperor comes. He watches as Hux continues to interact with his people, more fish piled onto the guards on either side of him.

When at last he turns to Ren, Hux looks exhausted but accomplished, as if he has won a race or caught one of these massive fish himself. “Ren, come closer.”

Ren moves quickly to Hux’s side, taking residence in front of an elderly woman's stall, and Hux introduces the vendor: “Ren, this is Yamae. She always sold my father’s cooks the best fish in the harbour.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Ren says, offering her a smile.

“You as well, sir.” She grins, and Ren can see through a gap in her teeth.

It makes sense, then, why they are out doing the rounds usually handed-off to the lower class of courtiers. Hux is following in the footsteps of his father: a man who came from nothing and built himself a throne.

 _How can you rule your people if they do not respect you, and more than that —_ _if they do not know you?_   Ren understands this much from his own upbringing, from seeing his mother rule. The very system of governance on Naboo is based on the people’s will. But then, does Hux enjoy these interactions — as Ren knows Leia does hers with her own subjects — or, as with hunting, is his duty all that leads him forward?

Yamae laughs at something that Hux says to her as her knife thunks down onto the table, the head of the fish before her rolling off onto the street. She begins to clean and wrap the animal, while Hux continues to talk, gesturing back toward the palace. She holds the offering out to one of Hux’s men, who waits to take it until Hux nods and bids Yamae his goodbyes. He places his hand on the small of Ren’s back, steering him away.

“We’re leaving already, sir?” Ren questions.

“Yes. We’ve disturbed these fine people’s business enough for one day.”

Behind him, suddenly, Ren hears Yamae yell, “You, boy — keep him in these high spirits and there’ll be celebrations in the streets soon enough.”

Ren looks over his shoulder to find the old woman grinning, eyebrows raised knowingly. He flushes hot and quickly turns away, surprised at her impertinence. He follows Hux back toward the waiting speeder, expecting a word of distaste or irritation; but Hux does not seem bothered by the old woman’s words.

“She’s right, you know,” Hux says, as they are approaching the palace gates after a silent ride out of the city and through the foothills.

Ren had been looking out at the countryside, lost in thought, and now turns his head to Hux. “My lord?”

Hux smiles. “Yamae. She’s correct.” To Ren’s surprise, he leans over from his seat and drops a kiss on Ren’s lips. “I feel better, having you with me. I feel a better man. And the people can see it; they can tell.”

Ren flushes pink again. His heart picks up inside his chest. This was not, perhaps, a goal of his mission, but it thrills him — warms him — all the same. _He has come to care for me,_ Ren realises. _He truly has._

He smiles, shyly, back at Hux. Something new blossoms between them. Ren leans over and kisses him again.

Things have changed.

(He thinks of Rey’s sarcastic words from all those nights before, after he had finally found something of value to pass on to his mother.  _Your emperor,_ she’d called Hux.

 _And what does that make me, then?_ Ren wonders before he can stop himself.

 _His toy,_ he thinks; _his companion…_ But none of these words seem right to describe their unusually-burgeoning relationship. He tries again — _his partner? His lover? His pet? —_ and fails again.

 _His,_ he thinks suddenly. Room for more —room for change —a solitary word with heavy weight. It fits. _His.)_

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find us on Tumblr [here](http://huxes.tumblr.com) and [here](http://redcap64.tumblr.com)!


	5. Chapter 5

*

Enough time has passed since his last attempt at reconnaissance for Ren to begin to feel guilty, and for Leia and Rey to start growing impatient. Their daily check-ins have gotten steadily briefer, as Ren sheepishly reports that he has learned nothing new, and his mother _tsks_ her disapproval before reminding him, wearily, with a slight edge to her voice, that he is their only source at the court, and they are counting on him.

 _I know, Mother,_ Ren says, again and again. _And I’m sorry. But he is a very private man, and the court is busy, there are always people about; I am never really alone..._ He makes his excuses, day after day, and feels worse and worse about them — and yet, abstrusely, does nothing.

Finally, though, after he does not know how long — after Rey has snapped at him, the previous day, that _For one who volunteered so confidently for this mission, you certainly seem willing to leave it in the hands of fate —_ he resolves to act. He makes his apologies to Rey, sensing that she will not be truly soothed until more information (or, perhaps, Hux’s head) is delivered into the Resistance’s hands. But he will make a start: that very day, in fact.

He decides that Hux’s study will be a good place to begin, once again. Although he had seen much on that first day — had found the calculations, among plenty more of less use — he still thinks there is more to be divulged from the room, locked-up and guarded as Hux himself. And so, after breaking fast early with Hux and seeing him off to his audiences, Phasma in tow, Ren returns unobserved to the innermost rooms of the emperor’s suite.

As has become his custom, he stops off first to fetch fresh clothing from his own room. Everyone — Hux, Phasma, the droids, the staff — has grown accustomed to Ren’s morning baths, and, as planned, they provide the perfect cover, so long as he remembers his props.

(Ren has seen, even, skimming Hux’s thoughts in bed one night, that despite his own disinclination to wastefulness and leisure, he thinks Ren’s bath-routine charming. He likes his lovers to be clean, and finds Ren’s delight in long, sweet-scented baths amusing. He likes, too, the scent of Ren’s hair and the taste of his skin, the bath-oils lingering even hours later; since learning this, Ren has poured extra into the bathwater, taking any opportunity to get into Hux’s good — best — graces. The appreciative kisses are hardly a hardship.)

Clothing in hand, Ren makes his way down the connecting corridor, lined with statuary, and enters the emperor’s apartments. He passes through room after room, the layout intimately familiar by now: receiving-room outside, parlour and dining-room after that, and then the inner sanctum, the bedroom and refresher. And down the hall, farther, that most protected of spaces: the study.

Ren drops the fresh clothing on the refresher floor and turns on the bathtub taps. He waits for the deep tub to fill, pouring oils and dried flowers in, lading the air with heavy scent: setting the stage. Once the tub has filled, he turns off the water, leaving the tub to steam, and then slips back out into the corridor. The thick, sweet steam trails him. If he is discovered, he’ll say he has forgotten something in his rooms and is returning for it; the full bath, fresh clothes waiting, will give credence to his lie. He is safe.

Ren pads down the corridor, barefoot, and stops around the corner from the study. As expected, two guards are posted at the door, hands behind their backs, eyes straight ahead, blasters gleaming at their hips. Ren can tell even from this distance that they are not the same two that he had mind-tricked before, and is both relieved and disheartened. If they had been the same, he would have run the risk of recognition and, therefore, resistance; but, too, after a first intrusion, their minds would have been more pliable, and easier to manipulate.

 _No matter._ The Jedi mind-trick is not easy, but Ren is well-practised. His uncle has warned him to wield it with discretion and care, but Ren thinks he is justified, now. He rounds the corner, approaching the door — and then comes a voice from behind him.

“Ren.”

Ren whips around, completely thrown. Down the hall, the guards do not change their positions, or even look over. Behind Ren stands Captain Phasma, a suspicious look in her grey eyes. Her hand, as always, rests on the polished blaster at her hip.

“Captain,” Ren stammers, shocked to see her. He had seen her leave with Hux, off to the first appointment of what Hux had said, lackadaisically, was to be a very busy day. “What are you doing here?” he blurts, stupidly.

“I might ask the same of you,” Phasma says. “You have no business in this corridor.”

“I forgot something,” Ren says, too quickly. Phasma’s eyebrows arch. “In my rooms. I thought — I thought this might be a shortcut.” Inside his head he is cursing the captain, her sharp frown and sharper eyes, the disapproval and suspicion that radiate off her in waves. _Can she have followed me?_

“It isn’t,” Phasma says curtly. “You had best cease your prowling. I am sure the emperor would not approve.”

“No, ma’am,” Ren says, clenching his jaw. “You’re right. I’m sorry; I am still learning my way around.” He prays that her disdain of him, his supposed provincial ignorance, will here work in his favour; and it does.

He senses the snobbery in her thoughts when she lifts her chin and says, “I should have expected no better.” _Fool,_ Ren hears her think, clear as anything. _Ignorant whore; he has been here a month and still gets lost…_

He fights not to smile with relief. He is no fool, but he has fooled her.

“Come,” she orders. “I will escort you back to your rooms to collect whatever you’ve _forgotten,_ and then you will have your bath,” she says, derisive.

“Yes, ma’am.” When Phasma turns on her heel and stalks back to the main corridor, Ren hurries to keep up, following deferentially a few steps behind. “What were _you_ doing here, if I may ask?” he enquires, all innocence. “I had thought you were attending the emperor at his audiences this morning.”

Phasma’s jaw clenches: Ren can see it from behind. “Yes,” the captain says, clipped, “but the emperor needed something from his study, and sent me to fetch it. That is all.”

But Ren is delighted to see — to sense, rather, through the Force — that the high-and-mighty captain is _lying._ Her words seem true enough, but her thoughts tell a different story: Ren catches a glimpse of a petite, sweet-faced, chestnut-haired girl, and the darkened corner in which a rendezvous must now be delayed, all because of Hux’s _whore..._ Behind Phasma’s back, Ren smirks. _I am not the only one with secrets, here._

They have arrived back at Ren’s chambers, Phasma walking fast on her long legs. “Here,” she says. The thought crosses her mind of waiting for him to go inside, fetch what he’s forgotten, and escort him back to the bath, but her impatience — and thoughts of the brown-haired girl — win out. “I must go.” She narrows her eyes at Ren: “Remember the rules, Ren of Theed. Some boundaries are not to be crossed.”

Ren nods. “Thank you for showing me the way, Captain,” he says sweetly. “Now hadn’t you best fetch whatever it was the emperor needed? He’ll surely be waiting by now.”

Phasma’s frown turns into a scowl. “Good day,” she spits, and turns on her heel and stalks off. Ren can see images of the dark-haired girl until she has turned the corner and disappeared from his sight.

He smiles slightly to himself. He has failed once again, but at least today he has tried; he can report as much to his mother and Rey. They will surely agree that to attempt a break-in again today would be foolish, with Phasma already on alert; and he thinks he’ll make them laugh, too, to tell them of the lovesick captain and her lies…

It is time for his bath. The water will surely have cooled enough to be pleasant by now. Feeling strangely light, relieved of his mission’s duties for the day, Ren returns to Hux’s refresher whistling to himself.

####  *****

He has more success later. Hux is in high spirits at supper, and afterwards when they retire, he is almost playful with Ren, kissing him impetuously as soon as the door to his bedchamber seals itself behind them. Ren is taken aback by the overt affection; they have not yet even undressed. “My lord?” he asks, bemused. “What puts you in such a mood?”

“Work,” Hux announces, shedding his formal coat and tossing it over a chair. “Work, and you,” he adds coyly. “Come, undress me.”

Ren does. He’s getting used to the buttons and fastenings of Hux’s uniforms; his fingers are deft, now, where once they stumbled. “Work, sir?” he asks, sensing an opportunity. If Hux is in an effusive mood, his job will be much easier; _I might not even need to use the Force._

“Yes,” Hux says definitively. “I have a great project in the works, and today we have made considerable progress.”

Ren’s attention is piqued at once. _Can he mean Starkiller?_ He gives a small _hmm_ of interest but asks no further questions, waiting for Hux to say more.

The emperor sighs with satisfaction when Ren bends to tug off his boots, and steps out of his trousers once Ren has undone them too. He shivers delicately when the cool air touches his bare skin. “Temperature up two degrees,” he calls to the heating system, and almost at once the air begins to warm. “Much better.”

Ren holds out his preferred dressing-gown. Hux shrugs it on gratefully, and then stretches, wincing. He puts a hand up to rub at his shoulder, giving a grimace; his back hunches, stiff. Ren reaches out to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, stroking over the muscle. “You’re all in knots, my lord,” he comments, seeing an opportunity. “Would you like me to help?”

“A massage, d’you mean?” Hux asks. “You know how?”

“Oh yes, my lord.” Ren nods earnestly. “You’ll feel so much better.” _And with any luck, more talkative._

“Very well, then,” Hux assents, sounding pleased. “You’ll find lotion in the refresher.”

Ren goes to fetch it. When he comes back, Hux has taken off his robe and is lying on his side in the bed, propped up on his elbow and poring over his datapad; he looks up and smiles at Ren, turning off the device and laying it aside. “More work,” he apologises, and it sounds genuine. He looks expectantly at Ren: “How do you want me?”

This is such a reversal of their usual roles that Ren nearly laughs aloud. He considers a moment, and then directs him, “Lie on your stomach, under the covers if you’d like. Just leave your back exposed.”

Hux complies, setting down a pillow on which to rest his head and forearms. As he’s getting situated, Ren opens up the jar of lotion and swipes some onto his hand: it’s thick, creamy, and smells rich and wintergreen. _It suits him._ He rubs it between his hands and then asks, “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” Hux answers, and Ren sets to work.

This is one skill that was not fabricated as part of his disguise. Once, a few years ago, Rey hurt her back in a flying accident, and demanded that Ren work on it until it healed. “You have the biggest hands,” was her reasoning; but he soon proved to be very adept with them, and was able to soothe the pain and help her heal. This seems to be true for Hux’s tight shoulders as well: almost as soon as Ren begins to knead his fingers into the stiff muscles, the emperor exhales with relief, and arches into his touch.

“You’re good at this,” Hux murmurs, the sharp, piney scent of the lotion wafting up around them. “I feel better already.”

“I’m glad to please you, my lord,” Ren answers humbly. Hux murmurs with satisfaction.

After a few moments of silence, Ren carefully digging his fingers into the knots in Hux’s back and neck, he asks casually, “This project, sir, that has made you so merry today — what is it?”

“A military endeavour,” Hux announces grandly, although the pillow rather muffles his voice. “Very complex. Very secret. And going _very_ well,” he adds with boyish pride.

“Secret!” Ren repeats, smiling. He has worked out the last of the knots, and now strokes his warm hands over Hux’s back; the emperor sighs, relaxing visibly under his touch. “Can you tell _me?”_   He leans down to ghost a kiss to Hux’s nape.

The emperor gives a slow, lazy laugh, rolling over to his side to look up at Ren with half-lidded eyes. “Well, I don’t see the harm in it,” he replies, “except perhaps that it would bore you.”

“If I’m bored,” Ren promises, “I’ll find some way to entertain myself.” He kisses Hux full on the mouth. He’s more receptive — to Ren’s lavish affections, to his probing — than Ren had even dared to hope; he’s beginning to think this will go well. _Finally, something to report._ He pulls back. “Tell me,” he entreats him. “I want to know the reasons for my lord’s happiness.”

“In truth, there is not much to tell,” Hux admits. “I have perhaps made too much of very little.”

“I want to hear it anyway.”

Rather than growing suspicious, Hux seems charmed by this; he smiles, and strokes Ren’s cheek with a laugh. “Shall I put you on my council, then, if you’re so intrigued by affairs of state?” he teases. “Ah, well. My chief engineer has made great progress on a project that is dear to me — an old project, from an old idea, the plans dragged up from my father’s things.”

“What kind of project?”

“Undress first, and come into bed, and I’ll tell you.”

Obediently Ren sheds his clothes and climbs under the covers. The sheets are warm and smell of pine. Hux pulls him close, combing idle fingers through his hair, and he says, “A weapon, Ren. A weapon my father was having designed and built, but that he was never able to finish before his death.”

He says this lightly, but Ren is well-attuned to his emotions, now, and he can sense something heavy, something buried beneath the surface of his words. He could pry, he thinks — already he can sense through the Force that Hux’s guard is down; he would hardly notice an intrusion — but something holds him back.

“A weapon,” Ren repeats, trying to sound surprised. “What kind of weapon?” he ventures — but now he has gone too far. He senses the slightest twinge of irritation from Hux.

The emperor gives a short laugh and says, “You know, after all, I think I have had enough of work today. Talk of something else, if you would talk with me, or else talk not at all.” He tips Ren’s chin up to kiss him, making it clear what he should do; but Ren pulls back again, afraid to push his luck but deciding to take the chance.

“Your father designed it?” he asks, breathless. “You never speak of him. What was he like?”

The emperor exhales in frustration, rolling his eyes and carding a hand through his hair. Ren can feel the shift in his emotions in the Force, blowing like a chill wind.

“A great man,” Hux says testily, “or so he would have had you believe. Feared by his people, beloved by none. A soldier, a statesman, a conqueror — a hero, to be sure, but a poor excuse for a father.” He speaks with a bitterness that Ren has never heard before. He frowns at Ren. “I don’t wish to speak of him,” he says, clipped. “He is dead. He matters no more to me.”

He shifts in bed, puts a possessive hand on Ren’s hip: he is taking back control. “Tell me about your own family, if you wish to speak of one.”

“I never knew my father,” Ren says hesitantly, remembering his script. “And my mother died when I was young.” He casts his eyes down as if ashamed of this false past. “I lived on the streets until the brothel took me in.”

Hux softens again, at this, as Ren had hoped. “Poor thing,” he says. “So young, and all alone.”

“I managed,” Ren says, “and truly I am happy for it, for it brought me here to you.” He is gratified for this unsubtlety with an indulgent smile from Hux.

“You and your pretty words,” Hux says, shaking his head. “How lucky I am, to have found myself a whore with such a clever tongue.”

His voice is low and teasing now, and where their bodies meet beneath the sheets Ren can feel his arousal growing. Ren decides to give in: he has learned enough for tonight.

He opens his mouth to be kissed; the emperor moves against him, demanding, hungry, and soon enough commands him to put his clever tongue to use. Ren does so willingly. The sheets tangle round their ankles as he moves down the bed. He hardly needs to use the Force at all, tonight — Hux’s arousal is quick and genuine, and needs no extra encouragement from Ren. He can feel it radiating from him even before he has taken Hux, hard, into his mouth.

The emperor exhales as Ren’s lips touch him. He reaches down to guide his movements with his hands in Ren’s hair, murmuring, “Good boy, pretty boy; there, like that,” and Ren obeys him, taking him deeper, using all the tricks he has learned. He is doing well, he knows it.

The emperor hums low in his chest and then gives a last, lush moan of Ren’s name as his hips arch off the mattress and he comes thick down Ren’s throat. “Sweet boy,” he murmurs, giving a final luxurious shudder as he catches his breath. “Clever boy. Your clever mouth.”

Ren crawls back up the bed to his side, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. He tips up his face and Hux kisses him, deep. Ren curls into his side and lies against him, his own cock still hard and trapped in the warmth between them; he looks to Hux for permission, and, when it is granted with a lazy nod, works himself off against the emperor’s bare skin, moving his hips as slowly as he can so as to draw out his pleasure. He comes with a soft cry, eyes fluttering closed, and Hux laughs, low, and kisses his hair.

“I’m glad it pleases you so well to please me,” he comments. “I am beginning to feel selfish, you know.”

“It does please me,” Ren responds, by instinct — for of course this is what he must say. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks, there is truth to it: _perhaps too much truth, in fact._ He pushes the thought away. “Shall I go now, sir?” he asks, for despite the emperor’s unusual warmth tonight, he can sense that Hux is tired; he does not expect to be asked to stay the night. And sure enough, Hux is seeming to come back to reality from his desirous haze:

“Yes,” the emperor says, “I do think that would be best. I must have you well-rested.” He’s shifting in bed, suddenly cognisant, it seems, of Ren’s cooling spend on his skin, the way the sheets have gotten tangled. Ren is used to this: he is not surprised when the emperor gets up and goes straight to the refresher to clean up. 

Ren gets out of bed and dresses again; waits for the emperor to return, wrapped again in his dressing-gown, and formally dismiss him. This Hux does with distraction, holding out his hand for Ren to kneel and kiss. He says, “Goodnight, then,” and Ren murmurs a reply and dips a deep bow; and when he rises again Hux is already seated in one of his wing-backed chairs with his datapad in hand.

Ren knows that, for the Resistance’s sake, he should stay despite Hux’s subtle orders; he should find a way to spend the night, and take that datapad while Hux is sleeping, and deliver its contents straight to his mother. He could, he thinks, do this — could seduce him again, could persuade him into almost anything…but he will not.

 _Not tonight._ “Goodnight, my lord,” Ren says respectfully. He leaves the emperor alone with the plans for his weapon, the weapon that the Resistance seeks and must needs destroy. _He does not want me here tonight,_ Ren thinks — and despite the cost to his mission, he finds he is inclined to accept.

*

One night the next week is the anniversary of Hux’s accession to the throne. It is also, inextricably, the anniversary of the old emperor, his father’s, death — still shrouded in mystery even one year on; but that, of course, will not be mentioned by the court. (Even Ykara has, at long last, shed her mourning black: Ren sees Hux’s eyes flick over her in triumph, sees too the slight frown on her face.) Tonight the gossiping mouths will stay quiet.

The anniversary, at least, is the _official_ purpose of tonight’s celebrations. This is the first state reception that Ren has attended since coming to Arkanis, but he is well aware that its _un_ official purpose is to properly introduce him to Arkanis’ people, its allies: to the empire. He sits at Hux’s right hand as the emperor stands and raises his glass in greeting.

“Welcome, all, to the New Imperial Palace,” Hux says, his voice ringing out clear and commanding in the high-ceilinged room. “I am honoured to have you all here with me to celebrate this, the first anniversary of my coronation…”

Ren has never dined in the formal banquet room before — ordinarily the court eats in the great hall — and as Hux continues his toast, he looks greedily around him, taking everything in. While Arkanis lacks the warm opulence of Nabooian architecture and design (rose-coloured stone and gold plating, nature motifs and a weighty sense of the past), the planet’s aesthetic is still impressive, and can even, as it is now, be beautiful.

The banquet room is not so cold and austere as the rest of the palace. Instead of the dim, gloomy grey light that comes in from outside (it’s storming, as ever), the room is lit warmly in sunset-like tones, glowing softly off the gleaming steel and penetrating the grey stone of the walls. The table is laid-out magnificently, draped in white silk and set with the finest porcelain and silver. And the guests themselves add life and colour to the room: Ren recognises most of the distinctive colours, styles, and coats-of-arms belonging to the planets and noble houses allied with the New Empire.

He has been putting off making contact with Rey or his mother for several days now. He has been busy — Hux, lately, has wanted Ren to be with him at nearly all hours of the day, from when he wakes early in the morning to begin his work, all the way to when they retire, usually very late, after the court’s supper, any official functions or evening activities, and then, of course, their own time alone.

While Ren is surprised (and, perhaps dangerously, pleased) at this sudden desire for closeness, it does not leave him much time to stay in touch with the Resistance. He’s promised himself, though, that he will contact Rey tonight — if he is silent any longer she will go at once to his mother, and Leia will be much harder to placate. _And I’ll have so much more to tell her after the banquet._

Once Hux has concluded his toast — “And may the New Galactic Empire continue to grow and prosper, for as long as I and my house should live!” — he lays down his glass with a deferential smile, and the guests raise the glasses of Coruscanti blush-wine to him.

“To the Emperor!”

Ren raises his glass with them and repeats their words. (He makes sure to glance at Hux as he does so, as if to check whether he’s doing it right: this is _Ren’s_ first state dinner, after all. Hux gives him an indulgent nod, looking satisfied, and Ren smiles just for him.)

The first course is served by a small army of service-droids, their mechanical whirring so discreet as to go nearly unnoticed. A musical quartet strikes up a song in the corner; as food makes its way onto pristine silver plates, the clatter of cutlery joins the sounds of quiet chatter and music mingling in the air.

Ren eats with small bites, experimentally tasting each new delicacy put before him: Torbull tail soup and Plavonian starfish; algae-bread and vine beans and mistwater. He makes sure to look like he’s enjoying everything, and to compliment the food loudly enough for the High Lord Mecetti of the Tapani sector, seated across the table from him, to hear — his cook is in the royal kitchens tonight, as a gift for the emperor. These dishes, strange as they are, all come from his home planet of Tapan, and for even Ren to refuse them would be an insult of the highest order. (Or so Phasma coached Ren, sharply, before the dinner tonight, not knowing, of course, that he has been schooled in such manners since childhood.)

And Hux is pleased with him, Ren can tell. Between courses, while conversing with the dignitaries and officials seated around him, he lays one hand overtop Ren’s, and takes advantage of the folds of his formal cape and the many layers of Ren’s garb to rest the other one high on Ren’s thigh, beneath the table. Hux maintains his usual smooth, capable tone and expression, laughing politely and making witty remarks where appropriate in his various conversations, switching fluidly between languages and dialects when he needs to (although Ren knows he dislikes speaking anything but Basic, considering it lowering himself to do so).

But his eyes flick to Ren’s every once in a while, and his fingers trace deliberate circles on his thigh; and Ren knows that he enjoys this, toying with him just a little, in full view of his court and its most important allies.

(Ren enjoys it, too.)

By the time the dessert course is served, the atmosphere of the dinner has lightened and livened considerably. The bottle of Lothalian currant wine — presented to the emperor by a visiting senator from that planet, as a ceremonial gesture of goodwill — has been opened, and the strong, sweet, dark-purple liquor has made its way into everyone’s goblets and then down their throats. Ren has partaken of his fair share, and now finds himself in a very pleasant state of inebriation, watching the room in a kind of blurry, contented daze. Hux’s hand is still on his thigh, and his caresses are more deliberate now, moving higher still and slower, distracting them both in a most tantalising way.

Hux feeds him little sweetmeats, candied fruits, his pale fingers depositing them like gifts between Ren’s willing lips. Another dignitary presents the emperor and his favourite with a single starblossom: an exquisite and delicate fruit native to Alderaan, which is practically extinct since that planet’s destruction. Ren gasps aloud at the fruit’s sheer beauty when it is brought out on its silver tray. The peel is an iridescent silver-white, and when the round, flower-like fruit is sliced open, the flesh reveals itself to be the sweetest, palest pink, seeming to glow from within.

“It’s beautiful,” Ren breathes.

“Try it,” Hux encourages. He picks up a thin slice, and motions that Ren open his mouth again. The party falls silent around them as Hux places the sliver of fruit between Ren’s lips. “There.”

Ren closes his eyes. The fruit dissolves on his tongue: it tastes sweet, lightly floral, and _shimmering._ “It tastes like the stars,” he says, breathless, and the entire party breaks into light-hearted applause. Hux smiles, smiles, smiles at him, and Ren opens his mouth to be kissed, and the starblossom melts into sweetness in their mouths.

Sometime later, the droids serve the last of the desserts (the bizarre, white-blue, gelatinous Tapani mist-pudding) to the last guest at the end of the table. Hux has been watching, knowing that to interrupt before this time is impolite; but now he removes his hand from Ren’s thigh and stands, lifting his glass of deep-red bloodberry liqueur. (He finds the currant wine too strong, Ren knows: he is not so foolish as to risk losing his head, figuratively or literally, at an affair of state.)

“I propose another toast,” Hux calls out above the convivial din. The high collar of his formal jacket is appliquéd with velvet laurels in a soft, rich shade of gold, crowning his shoulders as a finely-wrought circlet does his aristocratic brow. He clinks his dessert spoon against the side of his glass and waits for the noise to die down, surveying the party with eyes like a satisfied cat.

Once the room is quiet, Hux smiles smoothly — and then he turns to Ren. “To the handsome and charming Ren of Naboo,” he announces, laying one possessive hand on Ren’s fleuréline **-** clad shoulder. “The man who has, of late, brought a new joy and a new light to my court.” His hand rests heavy on Ren’s arm, unmoving. The rings on his fingers are cold through the thin fabric.

Ren flushes scarlet. This was, apparently, the exactly right reaction: a chorus of charmed murmurs rises up from the crowd.

“Stand up, Ren,” Hux entreats, smiling gently down at him. Ren does, feeling unsteady on his feet, having to grasp Hux’s arm for support. The guests — more expressive than the usual Arkanisian crowd, to be sure — laugh, delighted, at this, and Ren gives a blushing smile, flirting with them.

Hux’s hand moves down, finds Ren’s, and squeezes it. “To Ren,” he proclaims, and raises his glass. Ren feels warm, and dizzy, and happier than he has since before his father died.

“To Ren!” the party echoes. They drink. Hux sets down his glass and takes Ren’s face in his hand, tilts it close and kisses him. Ren smiles against the emperor’s lips: he tastes of sweet plums and honey, alcohol and spice.

The two of them sit back down and the party resumes, showing no signs of stopping as the night goes on. Ren has lost track of the hours: the viewports outside have been dark for some time now, but the nights on this planet are long. He finds that, although he still needs to contact Rey, he doesn’t care what time it is. He drinks more currant wine, and some of the rich red liqueur that Hux prefers, and he laughs and he flirts with Hux and the other guests alike, the bangles on his wrists tinkling with his movements and sparkling in the light.

Sometime late the party finally comes to a close. Hux, still remarkably sober, bids farewell to all the guests at the door, kissing hands and cheeks and assorted appendages, bowing and exchanging respectful salutations. The emperor dismisses his guards for the night, and at last they are left alone: Ren, Hux, and the fleet of service-droids, now hurrying to dismantle the remains of the festivities and restore the banquet hall to its former ascetic state.

They leave the droids to their work and walk arm-in-arm through the palace to the imperial apartments. Hux’s boots click on the stone and echo in the still air; Ren’s silk-slipper-clad feet pad almost noiselessly. The moons are high and full in a clear, star-speckled sky.

“To bed?” Hux asks, low, once the doors have closed behind them, although his rooms are free of servants at night. His eyes gleam in a way Ren has come to know well. But:

“Give me a moment, Hux,” Ren requests, clumsy fingers toying with Hux’s sleeve. He bends his head to mouth at Hux’s ear. Despite the fog in his head he thinks of a ready excuse: “Let me get out of these clothes.”

“I’d rather take you out of them myself,” Hux replies at once, tilting his neck to indulge Ren’s wandering lips. “Can’t I?”

Even in his drunken, blissful state Ren knows he needs a moment alone — Rey won’t let him brush her off again. “No,” he says regretfully, capturing Hux’s mouth in a quick kiss. “I’ll only be a moment,” he promises.

Hux’s eyes show displeasure, but Ren knows he’ll indulge him. He nods, jaw set: “I’ll be waiting.”

Hux turns on his heel and goes down the corridor to his bedchamber, his long formal cloak sweeping behind him. Ren watches him go for a moment, longing with every cell of his body just to follow him; but he shakes his head. _Rey will tell my mother if she doesn’t hear from me tonight._ So he goes to his own chamber and shuts the door firmly behind him, remembering to lock it with a quick press of the fingerprint scanner.

Ren sheds his outer wrap and then goes into the refresher, relieving himself, washing his hands, and splashing cold water on his face. In the mirror, his eyes are too-bright and wide, shining and hungry. His face is flushed, his hair in disarray —  _did I look like this all evening?_ (The thought is not an unpleasant one.) He dabs fragrance onto his wrists, the soft hollow of his throat, and then he goes back into the bedchamber and opens his Force-bond with Rey.

 _Rey? Are you there?_ His voice, even inside his head, sounds giddy, unsteady.

 _What is it, Kylo?_ The princess’ response is almost instant, her voice immediately concerned. _Is something wrong?_

 _No,_ Ren assures her. _No, Rey — not at all — everything is wonderful._

“He showed me off tonight,” he says aloud, drunk and dizzy, knowing Rey can hear him in her head. “There was a banquet, a state dinner, and I sat at his right hand, and he fed me sweets and gave me wine.” He smiles, sinking onto the soft bed, legs pulled up to his chest like a child’s. “I was dressed up for him — for everyone — and they all admired me, everyone did. They didn’t recognise me at all!” He laughs, looking down at his beautiful clothes, running fingers over the fine cloth. “Rey, Rey, if only you’d seen it,” he coos. “No one knew who I was. They thought I was just the emperor’s whore…”

 _Kylo, are you sure you’re all right? You’re worrying me._ (Ren can practically see, through his haze, his cousin’s high forehead furrowing in concern, her hazel eyes narrowing as she frowns up at him.) _Have you spoken to your mother?_

“I’m fine, Rey. I’m _happy,”_ Ren tells her, still speaking aloud, not caring that someone — that Hux — might hear him. “He’s taken with me. He won’t go anywhere without me, and I spend most every night in his bed, Rey, he wants me with him all the time…”

 _But have you found out more about the weapons project?_ Rey asks insistently. _About Starkiller? What is it, Kylo? Do you know anything more?_

“No.” The lie slips blithely, so easily from Ren’s lips. “Nothing!” And he laughs again. “Rey, I have to go; the emperor is waiting for me,” he tells her, more serious now. He begins to draw his concentration away from their bond, letting it recede.

 _No! Kylo, don’t go,_ Rey snaps as the bond begins to fizzle. _Kylo, stop! You haven’t learned_ anything? _I thought you said he trusted you!_ We’re _trusting you, Ben! BEN!_

He hears her shout in his head and then the bond is broken.

Ren lies back on the bed and stretches, smiling, tipsy and languorous, thinking about what awaits him in Hux’s chambers. And then he stands, stumbling, and strips off his formal clothes, exchanging them for one of the gauzy dancer’s outfits that Hux likes him in so much. Thus attired — perfumed and jewel-draped and wanting — he makes his way to Hux’s rooms, all thoughts of the Resistance pushed far from his mind.

*

It is a rare clear afternoon, the sun having bravely struggled through the morning’s clouds and now shining in full force. Ren and Hux are strolling across the back lawn arm-in-arm, in the brief recess between Hux’s morning and afternoon appointments. Ren has exchanged his lightweight indoor shoes for a more sturdy pair of boots, the same he’d worn on the hunt. Although they’d proved unnecessary then, they certainly are not now; the grassy lawns of the palace are still damp, and they are skirting muddy divots and lingering puddles on the path even hours after the morning’s storm.

The emperor sighs in contentment, lifting his face to the light:

“A fine day, Ren,” Hux says with satisfaction, as if he himself had put the sun in the sky and cleared the clouds away. “Thank you for suggesting a walk. I don’t get out enough on my own.”

“You’re very welcome,” Ren replies, smiling. “It would be a shame not to take advantage of the weather while it lasts.”

In truth, his suggestion of a walk was motivated by more than just the fair weather. Since the accession banquet, and his subsequent conversation with Rey, last week, Ren has been feeling ever-so-slightly guilty about growing lax in his Resistance duties. _They’re already suspicious,_ he remembers thinking, when he’d awoken with an aching head and a cottony mouth in Hux’s bed the morning after the banquet.

Almost immediately on waking he’d been assaulted with the memory of Rey’s urgent words, and his own flippant, careless replies; he got out of bed, groaning with the throb of pain behind his eyes, and dressed quickly before slipping back to his own quarters, vowing to get in touch with his cousin and apologise once he’d refreshed himself. _I need to make amends._ But he’d vomited on the way to the shower — too much sweet wine the night before — and, once he’d wrapped his cleaner, dripping, but still-wretched self in a towel and then dragged himself back into the bedroom, he’d collapsed on the bed and fallen promptly back asleep.

When he’d awoken some time later, he’d realised he was about to be late for lunch, and so dressed again and flew from the room, thoughts of his cousin and his mission evaporating like the steam on the refresher mirrors this morning. The rest of the day progressed as usual — taking tea with Ykara during Hux’s afternoon audiences, returning to his rooms to dress for dinner and then walking there on Hux’s arm, dining at his side and dancing with him after — and it was only much later, when Hux was already falling asleep at Ren’s side in the imperial bed, the planet’s twin moons casting a silvery glow on his face, that Ren remembered his promise. _It’s too late now,_ he’d thought lazily, his eyes beginning to slide shut. _I’ll do it in the morning. She won’t mind._

But he hadn’t done it that morning, or the next one, or the one after that. In all fairness, though, since that time, he has learned little of value to the mission — hence the purpose of today’s walk. When he contacts Rey again, he’s told himself that he’ll have _something_ new to tell her…even if it’s only something inconsequential, of no real cost or benefit to the Resistance — or to Hux.

“The gardens are lovely,” Ren says, as they pass a bower of Sihan peach trees. “Were they a particular interest of your father’s?”

“Oh, hardly,” Hux says dismissively. “But all the Core World palaces have beautifully-landscaped grounds, and if we, too, were to be a modern court, we needed the right kind of garden. He had gardeners and landscapers flown in from Chandrila and Tangenine, and plants from Endor and Sabella and Kashyyyk. I believe the gardens at the Naboo royal family’s lakeside retreat of Varykino were used as a model,” he muses. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to tell, however.”

“No, sir.” In fact, Ren had noticed several features reminiscent of his family’s summer home, formerly belonging to the old queen, his grandmother Padmé: the graceful willow trees bending over a reflecting pool, the bright clusters of posies and everlilies crowding round the bases of imposing marble statues. _But of course,_ Ren _would not know that._

He looks around, hoping to draw the conversation away from Naboo and back to Hux’s own family — perhaps even to his father’s plans for Starkiller. “Did you play in the gardens as a child?” he asks at random, feeling churlish as soon as he’s asked. But Hux, although surprised, seems rather charmed:

“No,” he says, steering Ren around a deep puddle by his elbow. “I spent most of my time indoors, with a string of tutors whom I swear got drier by the year. Mathematics, science, history, rhetoric…Useful stuff, and I was good at it, but my teachers were dull as anything.” His nose wrinkles with disdain. “And then there were the weapons lessons and combat simulations, once I got a little older; but those were indoors, too, and never with _proper_ weapons. My father didn’t want to risk the life of his only heir.”

He gives a sigh of long-held vexation. “He trained his stormtroopers from childhood — they were my age and younger, and could kill a man in minutes; and yet there was I, not even permitted to hold a blaster with the safety on. It wasn’t until I went to the Academy that I learned how to fight.”

He pinks slightly, looking down. “Of course,” he adds, sounding chastened, “that was still only in simulations. But _better_ ones. More challenging. More — life-like.” There is a tinge of defiance in his tone, as if daring Ren to counter him.

Ren smiles to himself. He knows well Hux’s ennui with dry lessons in statecraft and diplomacy, etiquette and poise — although his own education was supplemented with Jedi training, which was _much_ more exciting, and he would daresay more useful besides. “I can only imagine,” he says sympathetically. “Poor cloistered prince. Did you never see the sun?” He nudges Hux’s arm with affection, and receives a smile in return.

“My father was not _that_ cruel,” he answers. “Although whenever I did go out, into the city or even just around the palace grounds, I was always accompanied, whether by a bodyguard or just a droid — as we are today,” he says with slight exasperation, glancing over his shoulder.

Following them at what is nearly a respectful distance is a little silver surveillance droid, hovering along a metre off the ground. Ordinarily — to Ren’s inconvenience — one of the Bodyguard would be accompanying them on any private excursion, but today Captain Phasma and her soldiers are indisposed, their monthly inspections being scheduled for right now. Phasma, however, insisted that a droid go with Hux if she could not, “for one never knows when danger might present itself,” she protested to the emperor.

Hux had laughed her off: “Phasma, please, in my own back garden? You’re growing paranoid." But his captain would not relent; and so the droid remains. Ren knows it only records video and not sound, which makes private conversation easier than it would have been, had Phasma herself been stalking through the grass behind them; but still, he doesn’t like feeling watched. _Especially since I’m trying to make up for lost time._

“Your father,” Ren repeats. “He sounds like an intriguing man, from what little you’ve told me of him,” he says innocently, acting as if Hux’s chilly response the last time he’d brought up his late father had never occurred. “I should like to know more about him, for he’s passed on so much to you —”

“No.” Hux cuts him off rather sharply, just as he had last time. He glances at Ren — a warning — and, just like last time, directs the conversation back to Ren. “We’ve spoken too much of him already; I don’t like to dwell on the past. Tell me about _your_ childhood, Ren. I’m terribly curious about how the… _other half_ lives,” he adds with a dry smile.

“Do you mean Core-dwellers or _whores,_ my lord?” Ren asks with mock-offended insouciance, accepting Hux’s pointed suggestion as he knows he should. _Another time. Starkiller can wait,_ he deflects — again.

“Both,” Hux replies, lips twitching with amusement. He tucks Ren’s arm closer to his side as they turn down the winding gravel path that leads back to the palace: Hux’s next appointment begins soon. “I hardly know anything about you,” he adds, as if realising this for the first time. “I should like to.”

Ren lets his cheeks dimple, ducks his head. “There’s hardly anything to know, my lord,” he says. He begins to recite the memorised story: “I was born in Theed to poor parents. My father left us when I was young, and my mother died not long after. When I was ten, the brothel took me in; I started working when I was fourteen, and still would be if not for you.” He squeezes Hux’s arm. “That’s all.”

“But what was your life like, at the brothel?” Hux pronounces the word with slight disdain. “Day-to-day. Did they take good care of you? Were you fed, were you paid well, did you live in comfort?”

Ren swallows, daunted by the barrage of questions. But then he relaxes, and calls up his script, and answers as best he can: “Well, it was a well-to-do establishment, favoured among a…better clientele,” he lies smoothly. “I was lucky, in that regard. I could have ended up abused, or diseased, or cheated, or worse — but the madam was clever, and smart with her money and with who she let in; and she was kind to all of us, too,” he continues, embellishing slightly the story the Resistance has worked out for him.

“How many of you were there?” Hux questions.

Quickly, all at once worried, Ren scans the Force for any malicious intent from Hux, any underlying suspicions — and finds nothing. _He’s simply curious. For all his education, he has been very sheltered._

“Fifteen,” Ren answers him comfortably: the number the Resistance had chosen. He remembers the discussion: _A smaller pleasure-house, but not so exclusive as to be galactically known. That would make things too easy to disprove._ “Mostly girls, as you’d expect, but a handful of boys too,” he adds, inventing.

At this, Hux frowns. “I thought you’d said you were the only boy,” he says, suddenly circumspect. “You were the girls’ pet, you said.”

Ren swallows hard: his confident lies have entrapped him. _Careful, careful!_ “When I was young,” he explains hurriedly. “They doted on me, all the girls, and the madam, too. When I started working I was their little prize, they always wanted to show me off; but when I got older, some other boys came to us, too.” He adopts a vaguely sorrowful look. “I was less special, then.”

He thinks perhaps he has laid it on a little thick, but Hux is so eager to hear _how the other half lives_ that he hardly seems to notice. He pats Ren’s arm lovingly. “Sweet thing,” he consoles. “If any of those other boys were _special,_ wouldn’t they be here, where you are now?” He says this in a tone that brooks no argument, with such an endearing, childish decisiveness that Ren can’t help but smile.

“You’re right,” he concedes, resting his head on Hux’s shoulder briefly. “I am here for a reason.”

*

 _He’s not skilled in combat,_ Ren tells Rey through their Force-bond later on.

He and Hux returned to the palace together and then parted ways, Hux to his audience chamber with his greatcoat streaming behind him, and Ren to his quarters to finally make good on his promises to himself. He sits, now, cross-legged by the fire, in a meditation posture that both allows him to focus more intently on his mental link with Rey, and provides him with an explanation should anyone come knocking.

 _That could be helpful, should it ever come to fighting on the ground,_ he adds, when Rey is silent, waiting for more.

He feels guilty — ashamed, even — to be disclosing such an intimate detail about Hux, one gleaned from him in his most vulnerable moments; but it is truly all he has, and he has vowed not to be silent any longer, even at the cost of the emperor’s pride.

In his head, Rey sighs, clearly disappointed with what little he’s brought her, after so many days of silence. _All right,_ she says, _but is that really all you’ve learned? It’s not much, and it’s not what we need right now._

 _I know,_ Ren retorts, defensive despite himself, _but it’s all I have. He doesn’t like to talk about himself, or his father — and it’s hardly easy to insert secret weapons projects into dinnertime conversation, much less those of whose existence one isn’t even supposed to be aware,_ he adds tartly.

Rey sighs louder. _I know,_ she answers, her temper flaring, _but we need_ more _. We still don’t even know what Starkiller is! Is it a new fleet, a new type of ship, a new kind of gun? We’re guessing, Kylo, that’s all we’re doing, and we won’t be able to prepare ourselves appropriately until we have some facts._

She’s growing impatient, angry. Ren knows he deserves it. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, quieter now, backing off. _Really, Rey, I am. I’m sorry I don’t know more by now, and — I’m sorry for how I answered you the other night,_ he adds. _I was childish. I was stupid. I’m sorry._

 _That’s all right._ Rey is gentler now, too, tempering herself. _But can you not use the Force, if he’s truly so reserved? It’s not like you’re only relying on your charms,_ she teases him. _Stars know those will only go so far._

Ren swallows. What, then, _is_ his excuse — what will he tell her? For in truth, his reasons for abandoning the Force as a means of persuasion have nothing to do with the ethics or the demands of his mission, but only with his growing feelings for Hux — which, of course, are anathema in themselves. He thinks quickly, and explains as best he can, delicately evading the full truth.

 _He is sensitive,_ he explains to Rey. _Not Force-sensitive, I mean, but — touchy. He has put up walls inside his head, whether consciously or not, and he’s unusually perceptive to attempted breaches. I don’t dare risk intruding too far._

This is true. He does not add that he is uncomfortable forcing down Hux’s defences — although he is fully capable of doing so — because he wants to learn things about him as Hux reveals them to him, and no sooner. He wants to come to know him honestly. He wants their relationship to be built on equal ground, inasmuch as it can; he will not use his powers to tip the scales in his favour.

 _Shame,_ Rey thinks, disgruntled. _Your abilities are such an asset, but if he’s as guarded as you say…_ She sighs. Ren feels her attention pull away from him for a second: the bond falters briefly, like a staticky comms channel. Something has distracted her. After a moment her concentration returns. _I’m sorry, Kylo; Finn’s just come in, and I have to go._ Ren can hear her smile. _We’re going for a night flight, the three of us._

Ren smiles, too. It’s late on Naboo, close to midnight; the stars will all be out, and the lights of the distant city will glitter and glow. He knows how, when they stay at the country house, Rey and her boys love to take their ships out and fly over the sleeping countryside, race through wild manoeuvres and daring tricks in a peaceful and empty night sky. He often joined them, before the accident; after, almost never.

 _Enjoy yourselves,_ he tells her sincerely. _I envy you; I haven’t flown since before I left. Stay safe._

 _You too,_ Rey returns automatically: their standard farewell since he’s been here. _We miss you. We trust you._

 _I miss you, too. Goodnight, Rey._ In tandem, the two of them let their bond recede, until Ren is left alone without her presence in his head. He sighs, and stands up slowly, stretching his stiffened limbs.

He had told her so, but, Ren realises, he does not miss his family as much as he had. The palace gardens today had made him think of home, to be sure, but the accompanying pang of homesickness felt more like muscle memory than true sadness. In truth, he has hardly thought of Naboo of late, much less missed it. This does not discomfit him as much as it should.

He looks at the chrono on his wrist. Hux’s last audience should be finishing soon, and then it will be time for the court’s supper; and then they will be together and alone once more. Ren feels the habitual stirrings of desire, in his mind and between his legs, as he thinks of Hux and all the nights he’s now spent in his bed.

He stretches again, and thinks briefly of going into the ‘fresher and taking care of himself before dinner, to tide him over until later; but he checks the chrono again and realises that he doesn’t know what to wear, that soon enough he’ll have no time at all. And Hux abhors lateness. He sighs and goes to the wardrobe, and then, dressed and jewelled like the exotic prize he is here, traipses down to dinner.

*

“I’m sorry,” he says to Hux, later, when they are in bed. They are both still fully-clothed, and growing hard, Ren lying underneath Hux as they kiss. Ren pulls back to look him in the eyes, and Hux’s brows crease:

“For what, Ren?”

 _For telling your secret. For giving up that gift you gave me, that tiny part of your soul._ “For what I said earlier,” Ren says instead. “For bringing up your father again. I knew you didn’t want to speak of him, and I pressed you anyway. It was rude of me. I apologise.”

Hux’s face softens. “I forgive you,” he tells him. “You were curious. I understand. His exploits are documented all around the palace; why, this whole building is a shrine to him. But you do understand that I don’t like to speak of him,” he adds, the slightest warning in his tone.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Ren says, bowing his head. He can sense through the Force that Hux is hiding something from him, but he knows much better than to pry — and besides, he does not want to. He reaches up a hand to rest on the back of Hux’s neck, and opens his mouth to be kissed. “I won’t ask again. But — what about your mother?” he asks, the thought suddenly coming to mind: not for the mission’s purpose, but because he is curious. What little he knows of Hux’s mother comes from Ykara, and is thus, unsurprisingly, shrouded in half-hints and mystery.

Hux’s eyebrows arch. “What makes you ask?”

 “You speak of her still less than him.” Ren takes a leap of faith: “But I would guess that’s because you miss her, not because you hate her too,” he suggests softly.

For a moment Ren thinks he has gone too far — Hux’s expression tightens, he looks about to reprimand him — and then he seems to make a decision. He sighs, and rolls off Ren to sit up in bed, straightening his uniform. “Ren,” he begins, all at once serious, “I can trust you, can I not?”

Even a month ago, Ren would perhaps have hesitated; but now, he smiles at Hux, and says, “Yes, my lord, with anything.” He props himself on one elbow, looking up at Hux. “What is it?”

Hux gives another heavy sigh. “Before my father died…” He trails off, looking away, seeming caught-up in a memory. His expression shifts. “Before my father died,” he starts again, “he revealed to me something that jeopardised not only his own reputation, but my claim to the very throne he fought to keep, to someday pass on to me.”

Ren had not expected this. He schools his expression to neutrality, and prompts him to go on: “Yes?”

“The woman he married after winning his throne was not the woman who bore me,” Hux expels. “The Lady Maratelle of North Isle _was_ my father’s wife, however briefly, but she was not my mother. He confessed to me” — and here his face shadows with remembrance again; there is something unnerving in his eyes — “that I was — that I _am —_  the product of an ill-advised union with a camp-follower, during the early months of the war.

“He wanted to have her killed when he found out, to erase all evidence of his weakness, but an advisor persuaded him to let her live, and to keep the child once it was born. An heir, no doubt the first of many; insurance for his claim to the throne, no matter whence it came. Even in his rage my father saw the sense of this. He relented.

“The woman was brought to the capital, cared-for in secret until the child — until _I_ was born. By that time the war had been won; my father had secured his throne, and was now looking for a suitable consort, one who would be able to produce a _legitimate_ heir in short order. He did not want a foreign princess, and so” — Hux gives a cold, ironic laugh — “seeking to keep the bloodline pure, he searched from among our planet’s people. Soon a woman was produced, the Lady Maratelle, the oldest daughter of a noble family loyal to my father’s cause; and they married. After the wedding, the other woman — my mother — was killed.” His voice is without emotion, but his lips twist on the words.

“The new empress was kept in seclusion for nine months after the marriage, and then emerged with a strapping baby prince.” Hux gives a humourless smile. “Strange, how such a hardy infant should grow into such a _delicate_ child; strange, too, how no-one mentioned this. Stranger still how, when the empress failed to produce another child, she grew ill and quickly withered, and died within the month…”

He finishes speaking and exhales a breath, looking away from Ren. “There. You see, now, why I don’t mention her. I don’t — I don’t even know her name.” His voice is much quieter now, almost defensive: almost sad.

The first thing Ren thinks, stunned, is _So the rumours are true._ The whole galaxy has heard them: aspersions spread by those who seek to dismantle the Empire by any means, including disputing the emperor’s claim to the throne. But Ren, like many, had never believed them. One has only to look at the younger Hux’s flaming hair and sea-green eyes to know he is his father’s son. _But the mother…_

This new piece of information would strike the final, killing blow to the Empire, Ren knows full well. Were he to deliver it into his mother’s hands, the Resistance’s triumph would be assured…but so too would Hux’s downfall. His empire would crumble; his own people, already wary, would bay for his blood. He would lose everything —  _including me,_ Ren thinks.

He makes up his mind with alarming surety: _They will never know._

“My lord, I’m so sorry,” Ren murmurs, leaning up to kiss him. Hux sighs against his lips. “Does anyone else know of this?”

“No,” Hux says, sharply. “Not even Phasma. Only my father and the advisor who saved my life knew, and they are both dead now. No one else will ever know. I must keep the throne at any price.” His voice is harsh, but when he looks at Ren, his eyes soften. “You see you hold my very life in your hands.”

He kisses him, deeply, and Ren shifts closer to him, feeling his body respond. Hux strokes his cheek. “Enough of this, now. I don’t want to speak of it anymore.”

Ren understands that he means not just right now, but forever. He nods. “I understand.”

Hux smiles against his lips. “Good boy.” He kisses him again: the matter is closed. “Get undressed.”

Ren does, and Hux strips down too, and then they return to bed. Hux motions for Ren to lie down on his back, and spreads his knees with the lightest touch of his hand; Ren is eager, now, wriggling to accommodate Hux kneeling between his legs. “Look at you, so willing, so sweet — and for me, just for me. What do you want?” Hux asks him, nearly purring. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Ren whispers, looking up at him. Earlier today he had prepared himself, hopefully, for this, and is intensely grateful for it now. “Oh, I want all of you — inside me, always — oh, I want _you,_ Hux.”

Hux gives him that catlike smile as he strokes himself to hardness and slicks his cock with lubricant, produced from the bedside drawer. He positions himself, carefully, and then pushes inside of Ren: “Like this?”

Ren gasps. “Yes,” he says, as the emperor begins to fuck him slowly. “Oh, yes.” His legs come up to encircle Hux’s slim hips, tightening to take him deeper inside. “Oh — yes, Hux, please, my lord, _there.”_

“You feel so good,” Hux says, his breath catching as he thrusts. “Sweet as sin, Ren, oh, you gorgeous thing. What do you want?” he asks again.

“Everything,” Ren breathes. His hands fist in the fine sheets.

“Oh, Ren,” Hux murmurs, his voice low with passion, and drives deeper still, angling his hips in a way that makes Ren cry out in rapture, his eyes squeezing shut of their own accord. “I would give you everything, anything.” He pulls out, slow, making Ren hold his breath, and then pushes into him again, with all his strength. “I would give you the stars.”

“Please, Hux.” Ren wraps his legs around Hux’s hips and revels in the way their bodies join, the feeling of Hux so deep inside of him. He is full, he has never known such pleasure; he thinks he would want for nothing, if only he could have Hux, like this, for the rest of his days.

He puts his arms round Hux’s neck and pulls him down, kisses him as if to join their very souls, and Hux nips at his mouth and tells him, breathless, “Everything I am is yours. Know that.”

“I do, my lord. I do.”

Ren is so close to the edge, now, ecstatic, half-mad with pleasure. It takes only a few more thrusts before he comes, crying out with abandon as his body arches; and then Hux comes inside him, exhaling hard, saying his name: “Ren, Ren, Ren. _Ren._ ”

Ren shivers as Hux pulls out of him, his face flushed and satisfied, and he reaches up, greedy, for another kiss, tasting sweat on the emperor’s lips. They rise together and rinse off in the shower, the hydro on; they kiss under the spray, languorous and sated. And then at last Hux reaches to turn the water off, saying, “It’s late”, and Ren, nearly hard again, groans in protest.

“Come along, now,” Hux chivvies him gently, laughing at the wounded look on Ren’s face. “Come to bed.”

Ren flops naked into bed, his skin still dewy with warm water, and watches as Hux dons sleeping-clothes, shivering delicately. When he has climbed into bed and called “Lights” to extinguish them, Ren pulls him down to his side and slings an arm over him, tugging him close.

Hux nestles into his embrace. “You’re so warm,” he says. “I don’t know how I ever slept without you.”

“You’ll never have to again,” Ren promises. _I would give you the stars,_ Hux had said: it was only pillow-talk, but it thrills Ren all the same. _And all he told me today. He trusts me._ He presses a kiss to the side of Hux’s face, his nose bumping his cheekbone. “I swear it.”

Hux gives a low laugh: Ren feels it in his chest. “Goodnight, sweet boy. My Ren. My own Ren.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Illustrated beautifully](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com/post/164875339808/commissioned-by-huxes-for-theirs-and-redcap64s) by [Anna](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com/)! Thanks ever so much. ♥


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! As of last week, Kitsey's living in England, so our posting schedule will be slightly altered based on her new timezone. Thanks for bearing with us. :)

*

“Oh, don’t go yet,” Ren wheedles one afternoon a few days later. He’d been summoned to Hux’s quarters unexpectedly, in the middle of the day, and had hurried there at once, bidding hasty farewells to Ykara and racing across the palace, expecting terrible news. What he had found instead was Hux, already stripping off his clothes, telling him with a wicked glint in his eye that an audience had been cancelled and that _we’d best make good use of this extra hour, Ren, for idle hands make a poor man…_

They made good use of it indeed, and now Ren is lying in boneless, lazy bliss in the emperor’s big bed. The heady thrill of being here in the middle of the day, when anyone could walk in and find them, made their pleasure all the more indulgent. Hux has just risen from bed and is tying on a dressing-gown. He glances back over at Ren, still nude beneath the plush covers:

“I have a meeting,” he tells him. “This was a treat, but I still have work to do. An empire to rule,” he adds teasingly. He makes for the refresher, his previously-discarded clothes draped over his arm. He leaves the door open, and Ren falls back on the pillows, seeing him drop the dressing-gown to expose his pale back, hearing the pulsing hum of the sonic shower starting up. Like Ren, Hux prefers real showers, with hydro, but the emperor can hardly show up for a council meeting in the middle of the afternoon with his hair soaking-wet.

“You’d best get dressed too,” Hux calls to him from the shower. Through the door Ren can see him scrubbing a sponge over his fair freckled skin to speed up the sonics’ progress, working it to a rosy redness, and the sight is almost enough to arouse him again. He’d like nothing more than to get up and join him, to switch the ‘fresher setting from sonic to hydro and spend a warm, steam-filled hour with him — but he knows Hux won’t be pleased if he makes him late. “You’ll start to be missed if you spend all day in here,” the emperor adds.

Ren sighs, feeling utterly lazy, utterly spent. Ideally, he _would_ spend the rest of the day — and the rest of the night — here in the emperor’s bed, with nothing to do but please and take pleasure…but that is not truly why he is here. He must needs get up, and engage with the court, and find out everything he can to aid the Resistance.

An idea strikes him. He sits up. “What’s the meeting about?” he calls to Hux. _Starkiller,_ he prays, _let it be Starkiller._

“Military matters,” Hux replies dismissively. He has gotten out of the shower and back into his dressing-gown, and is now parting and combing his hair. He meets Ren’s eyes in the mirror. “Why?”

Ren’s heart leaps. He recalls Ykara’s advice, how she had worked her way into council meetings and the very running of the empire. It had taken time —  _eventually,_ she’d said — but time has indeed passed. Ren has been here for months now. Hux trusts him, he knows this for certain; so perhaps now is the time to finally make his move.

“Might I come with you?” Ren asks. He gets up from bed and pads into the refresher naked, leans up against the wall while Hux smooths fresh pomade through his hair, careful and precise.

Hux frowns. “Why would you want to? It will be dull, I assure you.” He rinses his hands and then picks up his bottle of scent and unstoppers it, but before he can pour it out Ren has reached over and taken it from him, and doled some out himself. “Ren,” Hux scolds, without real anger.

Ren stands behind him and rubs the lightly-scented liquid between his palms to warm it. He smooths it over Hux’s throat, working circles behind his ears with his thumbs, tracing lightly over his collarbones; Hux parts his lips and leans back into his touch. “Let me come along,” Ren says, low, in his ear, making the emperor shiver. “I don’t want to be apart from you.”

Hux sighs against him. “Well, since you’ve asked so nicely,” he murmurs in reply, acquiescing far more easily than Ren had expected. Ren kisses his shoulder, and Hux turns his head and takes Ren’s chin between his fingers to kiss him on the lips. “But it won’t be much fun,” Hux warns him.

He detaches himself from Ren’s embrace and goes to put on his clothes; Ren gets there first, and passes him each item as he needs it: exquisitely made and perfectly tailored things, his uniform jacket lined with blood-red silk, his boots shining and knee-high.

One of Hux’s first acts as emperor was to do away with the traditional planet-wide period of public grieving, excepting not even himself from the new regulations. Ren recalls the official speech, a holo of which he’d seen during his mission briefing: “We are a people concerned with progress. Why spend weeks, months, looking to the past in sadness, when we could and should be moving forward?” Hux had smiled, here. “I can think of no better way to honour my father’s memory.”

“I don’t mind,” Ren promises, sensing victory. “It’s enough just to be with you.”

 “All right,” Hux demurs at last. He fastens the buttons of his uniform for the second time today. “We’d best hurry. Get dressed.”

Captain Phasma meets the two of them outside the doors to Hux’s suite, bending to kiss her emperor’s hand and offering only a curt nod, eyes narrowed, to Ren. He smiles blandly in return.

“Come along,” Hux says briskly, not noticing their exchange; and he leads the way through the echoing halls of the palace, his boots clicking loudly on the stone floors.

The meeting is held in a part of the palace Ren has never visited. They had to take several flights of stairs down from the emperor’s suite on the top floor; there are no windows down here, and Ren realises that they are beneath ground level. The secluded location makes him even more certain that he has made the correct deduction: this meeting is important, and he is right to have pressed Hux to bring him along.

There is a small council already assembled in the meeting room (nondescript stone walls, basic furnishings: a long table, hard-backed chairs.) Ren doesn’t recognise any of the attendees individually, but they all wear the crisp uniforms with stripes of rank on the sleeves that mark them as members of the New Imperial Navy: there are no civilians present but Ren. (He recalls the quip —  _Most planets have an army, but Arkanis is an army with a planet —_ and has to stifle a grin.)

There are datapads in front of everyone, and one empty seat at the head of the table, obviously waiting for Hux. When the emperor enters, the council rises: “Majesty,” comes the murmured greeting from all around.

Hux bids them sit with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Another chair, Phasma,” he requests, and at once she produces one from some corner. She hesitates as to where to seat Ren — Hux notices, and with an impatient gesture says, “Next to me. Thank you.”

The captain inclines her head and strides briskly from the room to take up her post outside the door. Ren goes to take his seat, feeling the curious eyes of the men and women of the council tracking his every move, no doubt puzzled as to why he is here. He thinks he hears disparaging whispers, a grunt of displeasure, perhaps, and reminds himself that it doesn’t matter.

But Hux seems to have heard, too. He strides to his seat at the head of the table and sweeps a cold gaze around the table, silencing the murmurs immediately. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he greets them in a commanding tone. He does not apologise for his lateness, nor for Ren’s attendance. “Recent reports have not been encouraging,” he states bluntly: no pleasantries; the meeting has begun. “I suggest you endeavour to prove them wrong.”

No one seems perturbed by the emperor’s curt manner: this must be the norm, then. Glances are exchanged around the table, the councillors wondering who will speak first. After a moment’s hesitation, a woman with her dark hair in a severe bun clears her throat; the stripes on her uniform mark her as a petty officer.

“Construction was slightly delayed this month due to ice-storms, sir. We were unable to work for over a standard week, until the weather died down — but we’re back on schedule now,” she adds hurriedly, when Hux frowns.

“The lost time has been fully made up for?” Hux enquires. “We have deadlines, remember, Unamo.”

The woman nods. “We are back on schedule,” she repeats. “All deadlines _will_ be met.”

“Very well. Thank you, Unamo,” Hux says dismissively, turning his attention to the middle-aged man at Unamo’s side. “Colonel Datoo? How come your plans for mobilisation of personnel and resource distribution?”

The colonel is a pinch-faced man with greying hair, who nods self-importantly when Hux addresses him, sitting up taller in his seat. “We should be ready to begin mobilising troops within one standard month, sir…”

_Ice-storms,_ Ren thinks, as the colonel drones on in a monotone about matériel and transportation. Arkanis, while distinctly _wet,_ rarely experiences freezing temperatures or snow —  _so they’re building it off-planet. But where?_

Ren starts listening again. Hux calls on the next councillor: “Chief Engineer Marnix, if you please.”

The man in question starts listing off a series of technical details and statistics that fly right over Ren’s head. Although he is a thoroughly competent pilot and knows his own ship’s workings, he’s never had a head for mechanics like Rey, who’s been tinkering with and piloting ships since she was big enough to hold a wrench and reach the controls. But he’s going to have to report _something_ back to his mother —  _and maybe Rey will understand some of this;_ so he listens harder.

The chief engineer is a short, heavily-muscled man who looks uncomfortable in his trim New Imperial uniform. He lays his hands flat, palms-down, on the table as he speaks, his flinty eyes darting back and forth; he doesn’t look happy to be here at all, and considering the hard stare with which Hux is levelling him, Ren can hardly blame him.

“The most recent shipment, which included the focussing lenses, has been delayed due to the blockade in the Tatooine sector, sir,” Marnix is telling Hux sheepishly when Ren gives him his full attention. His gaze lands curiously on Ren for a moment — but Ren raises his eyebrows at him, cocky and lazy, and he quickly moves on. “As a result, we’ve been set back still further, what with the weather in the Unknown Regions and all. But with luck, it should only be a few standard days before we can begin installation. Sir.”

“The excavation is finished, then?” Hux asks sharply, frowning. “Completely? The last I heard from Admiral Daine was that the core had not yet been hollowed-out enough for the lenses to be installed.”

Ren’s attention had been piqued by the mention of the Unknown Regions,and now still further by this. He had not known what _kind_ of weapon they were building, but this gives him a clue. All at once, he remembers the sheets of calculations he’d found in Hux’s private study in his very first days on Arkanis. _Hollowing-out the core. The internal volume of several small planets and moons._ A cold, creeping suspicion begins to form in Ren’s mind.

“With all due respect, sir, Admiral Daine was incorrect.” The chief engineer’s voice-box is bobbing in his thick, veiny throat. “She passed on outdated information. Excavation is finished.”

“I hope for your sake that you are correct.” Hux seems to release Marnix from the grip of his stare. The engineer relaxes visibly as Hux turns to another of the council members, down the table to his left. “Kenwell,” Hux addresses her, “make contact with our Hutt allies on Tatooine, and see if they can’t pull some strings to have the blockade lifted.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” Kenwell’s datapad is already on; she reaches for it and starts tapping the screen efficiently. Hux turns to another councillor and asks another question, this time about adapting the existing Imperial uniforms for a colder climate.

_Ice-storms. Excavation. Focussing lenses._ Ren memorises these items. He resolves to ask Hux, as subtly as he can, for more information, just to be certain — but already, the pieces are falling into place, and they are even more alarming than Ren, or the Resistance, had imagined.

An hour later, the meeting has concluded — Hux seems satisfied, leaving the room with that cruel, pleased smile on his face — and Ren has hastily excused himself to his chambers and locked the doors behind him.

_It’s a planet,_ he tells his mother urgently, once he’s opened their bond and, mercifully, found her available. _Starkiller. It’s a planet, or it’s happening on a planet — somewhere cold, in the Unknown Regions._

_Ben!_ Leia sounds delighted. _Ben, this is excellent information. How did you find out? Did the emperor tell you?_

Ren is grim in the face of his mother’s excitement, gripped with a nebulous triumph-fear that he cannot explain or begin to dissect. _I asked if I could sit in on a council meeting,_ he explains, _and I’ve ingratiated myself to such a degree that he didn’t suspect a thing. As far as I can tell, he did not censor his councillors because I was there._

_Ben, I’m so pleased,_ Leia tells him sincerely. _This is massive news. A major step forward. A cold planet in the Unknown Regions — we can send a reconnaissance flight almost at once, we’ll have spies planetside right away…_

_Don’t,_ Ren cuts her off.

_What do you mean?_ All remaining lightness disappears from Leia’s thoughts. _Don’t do what?_

_Don’t act just yet,_ Ren warns her. He’s thinking furiously, calculating. _They’re on the lookout already — something about suspected sabotage, a blockade in the Tatooine system. They’ll be extra-vigilant, at least for a while. Don’t do anything right away._

_All right,_ Leia acquiesces somewhat warily. _If you think it’s best. Will you keep me informed, at least? Let me know when it would be wiser to begin surveillance?_

_Of course,_ Ren assures her. _I’ll go to all the meetings that I can, and get whatever I can manage from Hux in the meantime. Don’t worry._

_Thank you, Kylo._ Some of Leia’s earlier optimism has returned to her tone, but she is more guarded, now, as if she can sense his dishonesty. And he is no longer Ben. _I have to go, now — your uncle and I are holding audience this morning, and I’m expected any minute._

Ren had almost forgotten about the time difference between their planets: while it’s evening here, on Naboo the next day is just beginning. _I won’t keep you any longer, then,_ he promises. _Give my love to Rey and Luke._

_All our love to you, too, Kylo. Be safe._ Leia’s voice is gentle, a warmth like Naboo summer in his head, and then the bond fades and is broken.

Ren sits back and sighs, opening his eyes.

He has found out what they need, at long last. He knows what Starkiller is, now, or he has an idea; some kind of base, a weapons-test site or a headquarters, occupying an entire remote, frozen planet…

_But is that all?_

He remembers the talk of focussing lenses: the agitation of the chief engineer and Hux’s annoyance at the delay in their arrival. Why would a base, an academy, a testing site require focussing lenses? And lenses that required the excavation of a planet’s core for their installation?

_What if the planet is not a training ground or a testing site at all, but — the weapon itself?_

Ren was raised on his parents’ and uncle’s tales of the Galactic Civil War. Before his Uncle Luke devoted his life to the Jedi Order, he had been a flying ace for the Republic: it was he who delivered the killing shot to the First Empire’s magnum opus, the Death Star.

Ren’s earlier suspicions and conflicting emotions resolve themselves, crystallise. _This, then — it is another Death Star, but on a monumental scale._

Ren has told his mother to wait. The longer they wait to send a fleet, the closer the superweapon —  _for that is what it is, it_ must _be —_ will be to completion, and the more danger they will be in. He has put his mother, his planet, and their fleet — the navies of every Resistance planet, or at least all those whom Leia will enlist — in grave peril; and he has done so knowingly.

Instinctively Ren shuts his eyes and makes to reopen the bond, to tell his mother that he has made a severe error and that she should act now, should begin offensive measures so as to stop the project before it goes any further. But something stops him.

_And if I wait?_   he thinks. _And if I let them keep building, and keep the Resistance away?_

_The stars,_ Hux had said: _I would give you the stars._

And perhaps, with Starkiller, he will.

Ren opens his eyes. He sits motionless for another moment, still in a posture of meditation; and then he uncrosses his legs, stands up off the bed, and leaves his chambers, going back to Hux’s side.

*

“I suppose you recall the death of your planet’s king,” Hux says carelessly one night.

He’s lying propped-up in bed, attending to some business or other on his datapad while Ren lounges against his chest, half-dozing, listening to his heartbeat. It’s late. At these words, though, Ren’s eyes jerk open.

 “What?” he responds uncertainly, trying not to sound shocked or afraid. “The king — yes, of course I remember — last year…” Ren forces out, as if the day the king, his father, died is not forever graven on his memory. He closes his eyes again, gut clenching with the awful recollection. “Why do you ask, my lord?”

Hux flicks a hand dismissively at the datapad screen. “These files are of Nabooian origin; the late king was mentioned. You are from Naboo. So.”

“Yes,” Ren manages.

“Do you know how it happened?”

_Yes. We were at the lake house, and I had taken his seat. The sun was so bright that morning; the sky was so blue. The air was cold and smelt of autumn, and then it smelt of blood._  

“Yes, my lord. Everyone does.” Ren’s tongue feels thick in his mouth; the words pain him. “He was — shot. Assassinated. A terrible tragedy.”

Hux nods. “Tragic, indeed — more so when one knows that it was never the king who was meant to die.”

Shivers run across Ren’s skin. “My lord?”

“Don’t you know?” Hux asks with feigned surprise. Ren moves to look at him, and sees a knife-sharp smile on his lips. “The blaster bolt was meant for the prince. Kylo Amidala, the heir to the throne.”

All at once Ren feels like he is falling, falling. In his darkest moments, in the days after Han’s death and in many days since then, his grieving mind had dragged up this thought and presented it, bloody, to him: _It should have been you. Not only that, it was_ meant _to be you._ And now Hux, callous, catlike, confirms this awful theory to be true. Ren’s throat is closing up.

“The prince, my lord?” he says weakly, spots dancing before his eyes. He feels cold, cold and sick. He turns away from Hux so his face will not betray him.

“Yes,” Hux says lazily, flipping through his files. “It was my men who did it, you know. At my command. It was never supposed to be the king. He was old, his health was not what it had been — a civil war, a kingship, and a career before as a smuggler do not make for a long life. He was not a threat. The son, though, the prince — he was the target. He was the real danger.”

Ren cannot breathe. “Why?” he whispers.

“The boy is rumoured to be Force-sensitive,” Hux says, his nose wrinkling. “And powerful, they say. _Too_ powerful. Like his grandfather before him. Anakin Skywalker renounced the dark side and the First Empire in the end, and his daughter took his treachery to heart; threw off all traces of her past and pledged herself to democracy and light…”

He shakes his head. “A waste. If Leia Organa had joined her planet’s forces with the remnants of the Empire after the Civil War, we would have galactic peace today.” He gives another cruel little smile, tilting his head with boyish confidence. “The old queen would not have ruled, however. It would never have been her empire.”

“The prince,” Ren says. “Why. Why did he — have to die?”

“Without him, the Nabooian monarchy would not be secure,” Hux says flatly. “There is a princess, yes, the current king regent’s daughter, but she has taken herself out of the line of succession. War would have broken out on Naboo as soon as Leia Organa died. Their peace endures because of her. They would never accept the _smuggler_ as their king, if even he still lived; nor would they want the queen’s Jedi Knight brother.”

Hux is right. While many kingdoms’ laws of succession are based simply on blood, the Naboo are different. Their monarchs are elected, usually from the extensive and many-branched royal family. Historically, the people have favoured young queens, such as Ren’s own grandmother Padmé Amidala, who came to the throne when she was only fourteen. As such, the most likely heir to the Nabooian throne is not in fact Kylo, but rather Rey, who has been beloved of the people all her life, and groomed to rule for just as long. But Rey does not want to be queen.

When the princess turned sixteen, she made a formal announcement to the Naboo people that, while she welcomed their trust and confidence and would not prevent them from electing her, if that was what they so chose, she herself had no interest in the queenship. Instead, Rey told the populace, she would prefer to live an independent life of adventure, piloting ships around the galaxy with her closest companions, Finn and Poe…

She had announced her wishes to the rest of the family several months earlier, Ren recalls. Luke and Leia had been wary at first, concerned that the people wouldn’t be happy; but Kylo had taken up his cousin’s cause and encouraged them to acquiesce. “Besides,” he remembers telling them, “she is not the only heir; the people still have me.”

And so they did. After Rey’s unofficial abdication — she maintains the rights and privileges of a princess of the blood, but will not be considered a candidate for rulership forthwith — it became understood that Kylo was the new heir apparent; and the populace were not unhappy. Instead they welcomed the prince. His parents, after all, are well-beloved: his mother a strong and sympathetic leader, born and bred to rule; his father the daring war hero who, despite their occasional, passionate quarrels, remained devoted to his wife and queen until the end.

“The Naboo love their prince,” Hux says, putting voice to Ren’s thoughts. “Without Kylo Amidala, they would have torn themselves apart. A fractured planet seeking guidance would turn naturally to us — to the New Empire.”

Ren can see the truth of this, the cold, sterile logic, and it makes him sick. “It didn’t work,” he half-whispers. “They didn’t kill him. Why? How?”

Hux glances at him with curiosity, and Ren fears he’s overstepped — fears that this, at last, will expose him. But Hux’s pride gets the better of him. He tilts up his chin and says with disgust, “My men erred. The bounty hunter I hired was not known for his wits; he made a silly mistake, and it cost us our chance. The prince and the king had swapped seats — they were watching a boat-race, I’m sure you know; and the old king gave his place to his son, so he could have a better view. My bounty hunter was not informed of the change, and was evidently too _stupid_ to aim for the right _man_ rather than the right seat.”

Hux scoffs. “Idiocy. Damned idiocy. With the prince out of the way, I’d have had Naboo under my rule by now.” Idly, he strokes down Ren’s spine with his long delicate fingers, and Ren fights not to shudder. “I had the bounty hunter executed,” Hux adds, casual, an afterthought. “He failed me. He failed the Empire. Treason does not go unpunished, even the unintended kind.”

“Of course not, my lord,” Ren whispers. His mind is screaming, anguished; he needs to go, needs to leave, needs to get Hux’s hands off his skin. The hands that killed his father, directly or not. He sits up abruptly. “I am sorry, my lord,” he gasps out. “I am feeling ill — too much to drink at supper,” he lies, and stands, fumbling for his discarded clothes and dressing haphazardly.

Hux looks at him, eyes bright with surprise, and frowns petulantly. “Surely you aren’t going yet?” he asks. “I have only a little more work to be done. You may spend the night here, if you like.”

“No,” Ren chokes out. “No, thank you. I am not well, sir — please. I would like to be alone. I don’t want you to see me like this.” He sways on his feet; he can feel his face draining of colour. He thinks he is like to collapse. _I need to tell my mother. My family needs to know._

Hux takes in his appearance, and he seems to believe him. His lips tug downward. “Poor thing,” he tuts. “Very well. To bed with you, then, and I shall see you in the morning. You’ll make this up to me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Goodnight, then, Ren. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, my lord.”

Ren hardly makes it through the door of his room before he does collapse, pressing his hand to the fingerprint scanner and then falling to the floor as the door whirs itself shut behind him. His head reels. He feels hot tears welling up in his eyes — tears of fright, anger, grief; he hardly knows which. The Force amplifies his emotions to a dreadful fever-pitch, the inside of his brain a swirling howling mass of _feeling,_ paralysing him completely.

_I, the prince, the heir to the throne._ A learned, talented, capable man, a skilled pilot and fighter, Force-sensitive like his mother and charming like his father…and now, in love with his planet’s greatest enemy, and his father’s killer.

Ren moans. He hauls himself up, stumbles to his bed and presses his face into the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut til all he sees is blackness. He feels assaulted, seized, thrown about as if by a deadly storm. He is unmoored.

_I should not be alive. Hux wanted me dead._

At this point the tears overtake him. He can no longer think, he can no longer see. He curls up atop the covers and he sobs himself to sleep.

*

That night his dreams are not dark, but traitorously sunlit. He sees the day, that awful day, over and over again; sees it as if it were a play upon the stage. He sees himself and his father switching chairs, that innocent gesture that would so soon prove fatal. He sees them casting their bets upon the boats, pointing at the different crafts upon the calm blue lake, discussing their merits and flaws; he sees them being served sweets and lemonade by the retinue of serving-droids; he sees his father reach over and grasp his shoulder, laughing, when he makes a jest. He no longer remembers what he’d said.

And then he sees the shadow in the background: sees what he hadn’t, then — the sniper taking aim. And though Ren knows the assassin’s face — had seen it, when their bodyguards leapt into action to take the man down and drag him away (too late, far too late, his grisly job already done) — now Ren sees him as someone else. He sees Hux behind the gun, smiling as he pulls the trigger.

Ren wakes gasping in the middle of the night. Sweat-drenched, delirious with grief, he weeps again, and wishes for home.

In the morning he is awakened again, as is usual on the now-rare occasions when he hasn’t spent the night with Hux, by a footman knocking at the door, and then, whether he answers or not, sticking his head inside to call, “Master Ren?”

It’s the timid, baby-cheeked one today; _Mitaka,_ Ren’s fogged mind dredges up. _It doesn’t matter anyway._ He groans, his whole body aching, and curls further into the piles of covers into which he has managed to nestle himself overnight. He gives the footman no response, so the young man tries again:

“Master Ren? The emperor would like you to join him for breakfast,” Mitaka says hesitantly. “He’s waiting in the dining-room.” The footman’s trepidation suggests that Ren had best hasten there or they both will be in trouble. Still Ren does not respond. “Master Ren?”

Ren hears the footman’s steps approaching the bed. He gives another groan and forces himself to sit up, bleary-eyed. “I can’t,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Send my apologies to His Majesty.”

Mitaka looks taken aback: Ren doubts he’s ever seen anyone disobey an order from Hux before, directly-worded or otherwise. “Master Ren, sir —”

“I’m ill,” Ren cuts him off. “Tell Hux I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well enough to take breakfast with him.”

Mitaka swallows visibly, clearly torn, but with another glance at Ren — he doesn’t know how he looks, but he would presume frightful — the footman makes up his mind. He bobs a nod and gives a quick bow. “Very well, sir,” he acquiesces. “I’ll send word.”

“Before you go —”

The young man is poised ready to flee, but he turns back to see what Ren wants, looking like he expects a slap: “Yes, sir?” he asks timorously.

“Light the fire. Please.”

The footman looks relieved — “Yes, sir” — and does so as fast as he can, and then turns on his heel and scurries from the room.

Ren crumples back among the pillows and sheets as the flames begin to flicker gently in the grate. He cannot face Hux today, this he knows for certain.

But what will he do now? His position here — the Resistance’s position — is by no means guaranteed. This is a court; Ren was raised in one, he knows their ways. He must earn his keep, same as anyone else in the emperor’s employ. No matter the affections exchanged between them, when it comes down to it, Ren is in Hux’s service, and he will be dismissed if he does not serve the emperor in a way that pleases him.

He has not once missed breakfast — not once dismissed a summons from Hux, no matter the time or occasion — since he has arrived. He does not know what they will be, but he suspects consequences will arise.

For now, though, he does not want to think about them. He is still too raw, the shock too fresh. He cocoons himself among the furs, the drapes still drawn and the room still dark, the rain beating relentlessly against the viewport-panes, and he falls back into a consuming, troubled sleep.

*

In the end he has no choice whether to face Hux or not. Like he has so many others, the emperor makes this decision for him.

Late in the day, in the break between his audiences and meetings and the court’s suppertime — the break which they so often pass together in Hux’s rooms, or strolling the grounds if the weather is clear, the emperor relaxed and relieved to have even an hour’s reprieve — Ren is awoken from his heavy dreams by the electronic _ping_ of the fingerprint scanner.

“Who’s there?” he calls at once, eyes flashing open to find the room evening-dark, the rain still pouring down outside. But even dazed with sleep he knows there is only one person it can be; and that person it is.

“Lights,” Hux commands sharply, as the door _whishes_ shut behind him again. Without being instructed otherwise, the lighting system obeys to its fullest capabilities, all the lights in the room blinking on at their hundred-percent setting. Ren gives a small cry and sits up, shielding his eyes.

“You’re ill?” Hux asks without preamble, striding across the room to stand at Ren’s bedside and look down at him. He does not look pleased.

Feebly, Ren nods. Hux’s brows draw down in disapproval. “That’s no excuse,” he says, crisply, coldly. “I hadn’t time to wait on you this morning, but if I had, I’d have fetched you myself, and you would have dined with me and spent the day as usual, not _wallowing_ here like a spoilt child. Perhaps you were one at the brothel, but you are a part of my court now — in the public eye — and I expect you to comport yourself appropriately, whether you are ill or not.”

His words come like blaster-bolts, rapid-fire, with no sympathy. Ren flinches from them, stunned despite himself at the tirade. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Get up.” Hux’s words are like a slap. He has never spoken to Ren this way before. “You’ve disappointed me, Ren. I thought we had trained you better than this.”

_Trained you._ As if he were a dog, to be praised and petted when he does well — and reprimanded, disciplined when he fails. Put down, perhaps, if he behaves badly enough. Ren shudders. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quietly. “I — I am ill. I was not thinking. I never meant to displease you, my lord.”

“Get up. You’ll come to supper with me.”

Ren takes a deep breath. The thought of sitting next to Hux in front of all the court, and _knowing,_ knowing everything, makes him feel sicker still. Slowly, he shakes his head. “My lord, I can’t.”

Hux’s face darkens. “What did you say?” he asks, deadly quiet.

Ren repeats himself. “I can’t.”

This time Hux does slap him. Ren cries out. “I will _not_ stand for such insolence,” the emperor hisses. He grabs for Ren’s arm, makes to wrench him from the bed. “You’ll get up, and dress yourself, and sit by my side at supper. Nothing is wrong. Nothing _can_ be wrong with you,” he says, almost to himself.

Ren holds fast and does not move. “You will do as I say,” Hux fumes, punctuating his words with another violent tug to Ren’s arm, and then — “Ah!” he cries out, for Ren has tensed his muscles and then flared out with the Force to slacken his grip and shake him off.

“I won’t,” Ren says. The emperor seethes at him, his eyes full of fury. Ren shakes his head. “Not tonight, my lord.”

Quickly, gently — though he has not done this for weeks; has not needed to — he sends tendrils of thought into Hux’s mind, calming him, appeasing him. _Not fully — for he would mark it — but enough, I hope._

And enough it proves to be. The emperor glares at him a moment longer, patently furious; and then some of the fire seems to cool. “Not tonight,” he repeats, clipped and bitter. “I will give you tonight; but I warn you, I will not make excuses for you to my court at supper. Compose yourself, and I will see you on the morrow.”

“On the morrow, my lord,” Ren repeats, bowing his head respectfully.

Hux gives a low grunt of displeasure. But then he strides to the door, and presses his hand to the scanner and lets himself out again; and that is that, the storm has passed. _For now._

Ren exhales. His cheek stings where Hux hit him. He still cannot believe it — for some reason, he had never imagined this, that Hux would ever raise a hand against him — but now that it has happened, he doesn’t know why he is surprised. _He was well within his rights,_ he thinks, wincing.

But Hux has given him tonight. He will make do with tonight. He stands, slowly, his limbs stiff and sore from a night and a day of tossing and turning, curling up to cry; he goes to the refresher and washes his pallid face. He has not the energy to bathe, but he sponges down his skin and then dresses in fresh, loose sleeping clothes. Instead of going directly back to bed — he longs to, but also fears the dreams — he takes a seat on a rug by the fire, and closes his eyes.

Meditation has not always come easily to him. As a child, he was wild and restless, forever racing about and exploring, yearning to get away from his parents and tutors and the bevy of grown-ups who fussed over him at court. They wanted him to sit still at his lessons, to learn from books and holo-screens, but Ben wanted to _live,_ to run around the green palace grounds, smell the thousands of flowers, play in the rich wet dirt. He felt alive outside, in a way he didn’t when cooped-up amongst the marble and gilt of the palace.

Only his Uncle Luke had recognised that the boy needed to be outside, among other livings things, to use his body _and_ his mind. It was he who first started training Ben in the Jedi arts, once they realised his sensitivity, and he who taught him to find harmony between his body and his soul and the natural world around him: _becoming one with the Force,_ Luke named it.

But Ben’s mind raced on even faster than his legs. At night he couldn’t sleep, consumed by endless worries about his parents, his uncle, his new baby cousin Rey —  _What if they die? What if they leave me?_ Some nights he woke crying and ran to his parents’ rooms, to be soothed in Han and Leia’s arms with promises that they would be here forever, always here to keep him safe. He’d fall asleep between them in the great royal bed, and be brought sleepy-eyed back to his own chambers, hand-in-hand with a nanny droid, when his parents had to rise and begin their day of work at dawn. His fears would dissolve during the day, but as soon as he was alone at night, they would return, and nothing he did could calm them.

Meditation helped. It took him years, he remembers, to learn how to still his mind, to focus on everything and nothing at once: to be empty and yet whole. Luke was patient with him even when he struggled, opening his eyes after yet another fruitless attempt, kicking and shouting in the small, silent Jedi temple built on the palace grounds. Luke held his hand and soothed him, and talked him through the process, his voice as smooth as the temple’s stone walls. _Hush, Ben. You’re all right; you’re safe here. Think of your mind as a bowl of clear water. Your thoughts send ripples through it, and won’t let it be at peace — so empty your mind, and keep the surface still. There. There. Maintain it._

Years later, here in another palace, he crosses his legs and rests his hands on his thighs, palms-up. He hears Luke’s voice in his head even now —  _Empty your mind. Master your thoughts, and they cannot hurt you —_ and he breathes, slow and deep and measured. He feels his body relaxing, connecting with the living Force around him, and his troubled mind begins to calm, like the sea after a storm. Ren lets go, and lets himself be buoyed.

When he opens his eyes sometime later, he can see by the sliver of space between the drapes and the floor that it is fully dark outside. Arkanis’ nights are long; it could be early evening, or far later still. He does not often go into so deep a meditative state as the one he has just achieved, for this very reason — one loses all track of time. Ren checks the chrono on his wrist: 1900 hours. He meditated for the whole of three hours; the court will just be sitting down to eat. He sighs —  _I hoped it had been longer._

He stands from the stone floor, his face flushed hot from the low-burning fire, and goes into the refresher again. He relieves himself, splashes water on his warm skin, and then comes back into the bedroom. During his contemplations, just before he slipped into that most peaceful, trancelike state, it had occurred to him that he should tell his family what he’s learned. He remembers this now, and then he thinks, _But why?_

As far as Leia, Luke, and Rey know, justice has already been done for Han’s murder: the assassin was imprisoned, but found dead soon after (at Hux’s command, Ren knows now). This has not assuaged their grief, of course, but it has perhaps eased the pain slightly; the reason for their suffering had suffered himself, in turn. Tragedy, yes, and the sorrow of a people, but no mystery surrounds the king’s death. _Why open the matter again?_

_They deserve to know,_ Ren argues with himself. _They should have the truth of it._

But his mother hates Hux enough already. If anything, this will speed them farther down the path to war; and Ren knows that, in her heart of hearts, this is what Leia wants to avoid. She has sent him here to find out about Starkiller so that the Resistance can put an end to the project before it’s completed, and in doing so, cripple the Empire to a point where they cannot even think of war. If he tells her what he’s learned, Ren thinks, Leia will lose all her careful caution and send troops to this system at once — not for Starkiller, but for Hux’s head. His mother loves fiercely, and is not quick to forgive; and in this instance, her love will bring the galaxy to bloodshed.

_The many or the few?_ Ren is still a prince; he knows which he must choose. _They cannot know._

To be safe, Ren knows that now he must not draw on his powers. The news of Han’s death is too alarming, too painful, to be kept from his thoughts for long, and if he reaches out to Rey and Leia even for other reasons, it will be all too easy for them to detect those emotions themselves — and what lies behind them. He has been managing well enough without the Force for months, at least in Hux's bed; he will just have to be careful not to anger Hux to such a point as he did today, for if he does, he will not be able to rely on his powers to mitigate the emperor's rage.

Discomfited, Ren pushes this thought from his mind. His stomach rumbles. He has not eaten since yesterday’s supper, a full twenty-four hours ago. He goes to the internal comm panel on the wall and summons a droid, who arrives moments later with light, simple fare: dark bread, fish broth, soft cheese, fresh fruits. He eats enough to quell his stomach and leaves the rest on the tray. He feels better than he had before his meditation, but he can feel the darkness returning to his mind; his water-stillness is slowly dissipating, troubled ripples creeping back in. Ren sighs. Ironically, he knows, Hux’s touch would soothe him.

He climbs between the sheets and wraps himself in furs, welcoming their warm weight. He thinks to touch himself, for an approximation of comfort, but he finds he is too tired; he rolls onto his side and closes his eyes.

Almost at once the images assault him: the same as last night’s, and worse. He sees his father dead again, his laughing eyes cold and sightless; he hears his own voice screaming, feels the sounds ripped from his throat. He feels the arms of the guards restraining him as they hauled him, fighting and kicking, back to the speeder, to race back to the city and the safety of the palace. (He had not thought to use the Force to keep them off, although undoubtedly he could have; in his shock and grief he forgot all connection to his powers.)

He recalls his mother’s face when she learned of her husband’s death. She had, of course, sensed it through the Force as soon as it had happened, and Ren is glad that he had not been with her when she did. And when they returned to the palace, and the news was brought officially to her — said aloud; made undeniable, made real — she had not collapsed, not even cried out. But her face had gone white, and seemed to harden, as if she’d turned to stone.

That, Ren thinks, was the worst of it: his mother’s silent pain. _I cannot bring her more._

Slowly, without using the Force, he tries to calm himself again, to get a grappling hold on his thoughts. _Tomorrow will be better,_ he thinks, as he fights to fall asleep. _Tomorrow must be better._

*

It isn’t.

Although he could not use the Force to calm his troubled mind, Ren still had no dreams: he was simply too tired, his body worn out as well as his mind. But all the same, he wakes weak; his sleep did not prove restful. He tries to sit up in bed, and collapses back onto the pillows with a groan. Ominously, though he can see that the sun has risen, he has not been sent for — Mitaka has not appeared in his doorway, nor a droid or another footman. Ren hardly has the energy to wonder what this means, but all the same he knows it can be nothing good.

He tries to eat some breakfast — leftovers from last night — but vomits it up in the refresher moments later, his body too depleted even to welcome nourishment. He drags himself to the sink and rinses his mouth, cleans his teeth, but then he is on his knees and sick again. When he is sure he is empty, bringing up only water, he stumbles back to bed, praying that no one will come for him. _At least now he cannot deny that I am ill._

The day drags on, awful and endless. He is too tired to push the memories back without the aid of the Force, so they torment him without pause. He is torn, torn —  _how can I face Hux again; how can I leave him?_ The thought of touching him again makes Ren shudder with both revulsion and desire. _I want him,_ he thinks; _he killed him —_ on and on, in a painful cycle without mercy. He drifts in and out of tortured sleep, but his dreams (returned and unrelenting) are hardly better than his waking state.

This goes on for days. The emperor, it seems, is letting him be; and whether this is tacit consent or genuine, dangerous ire, Ren still cannot tell. He misses Hux and hates him in the same breath.

He calls for food when his body begs him to, but he can hardly stomach it. He drinks only broth and weak tea and spends hours on his knees in the refresher anyway. He meditates, when he is able, and finds what little peace he can in nothingness, divorced from the living Force: a puny mercy. He thinks endlessly of his father and Hux, his father and Hux, and the confusion is enough to make him rend his hair and clothes.

_What do I do?_ he wants to cry. _Who do I love more? Who can I?_

*

Ykara comes to visit him after he’s spent a full week in his rooms, seeing no one, speaking to no one. Hux has still not been by since their quarrel the first day; Ren has been too sick to care. _Almost._

She knocks on the door in the mid-afternoon. Ren had been trying to meditate, but found himself too distracted, and his thoughts were edging sluggishly towards going back to bed; but her knock startles him out of his torpor. He struggles to his feet, straightening his stale sleeping-clothes, and unlocks the door to find her there.

Ykara’s hair is, as usual, elaborately piled atop her head, and she is dressed finely for supper, all in rose-coloured lace. She looks down her strong nose at Ren as he gapes at her, suddenly terribly aware of his shabby, unwashed state and sleep-mussed clothes.

“Hello, Ren,” Ykara says, inviting herself in and closing the door smartly behind her. She reaches for him out of habit, air-kisses both his cheeks, and numbly he returns the gesture. Her nose wrinkles when she comes near him, and he flushes with shame.

“Sit,” she commands him, and obediently he does, near-collapsing into a cushioned armchair by the days-old remains of the fire: no one has been back in to light it, and despite the electronic heating, the room is colder for its absence. Ykara takes the chair opposite, crosses her legs at the ankle, and laces her hands in her lap, fixing him with a reproving look.

“So,” she begins. “You’ve decided to have a little sulk.”

Ren looks up from his bare feet. _When she says it like that —_ “It’s not like that,” he begins, defensive, his voice weak and rough from days of disuse. But Ykara holds up one hand and silences him with a look.

“You’ve had a falling-out, then?” she asks, businesslike.

“Well — yes, but no —”

“Then you are being selfish,” she cuts him off. “Is that it?”

Ren is silent. Ykara frowns at him in genuine disapproval. “Be careful, child,” she warns him, her accent growing stronger with her displeasure. “I’ve been doing this far longer than you have. I know how to handle a man, especially an emperor — and _this_ will not win you any favours.” She gestures to his unwashed hair, his tangled sheets falling off the bed, the heavy drapes still pulled over the windows though it is far past morning. “Now then. What happened?”

“I…I’ve been ill,” Ren begins feebly, casting about for believable lies. _A good courtesan would never let mere illness keep him this long from his master’s side._ “I didn’t want to trouble him,” he says; but Ykara can see right through him. Her frown deepens.

“Tell me the truth,” she commands him. “You’re a fool to try and play games with him.”

“I’m not playing anything!” Ren protests. “I’ve been sick, Ykara, I swear to you. Look —” and he holds his too-loose clothes away from his frame, showing her he has lost weight. The bags under his eyes prove that he has not been sleeping well. “He doesn’t need to see me like this.”

“Whether he _needs_ to or not, you cannot _forbid him to,”_   Ykara says sharply. “Selfish. That won’t do.”

“I know,” Ren mumbles; but he finds he cannot explain. There is no way he can tell the truth without exposing all his lies. “And I _haven’t_ forbidden him,” he defends himself, “but — I can’t. I can’t see him.”

“You must,” Ykara says, short. “Enough of this. You’ll see him today — you’ll clean yourself up, and have the droids in to tidy your room, and you’ll be back in his bed tonight. He _will_ grow tired,” she says. “He will not wait forever.”

“I know, I know, but I _can’t —_ please, Ykara, you must understand,” Ren bursts out, aware that he sounds like a petulant child. “I can’t. I can’t see him. Not yet.”

Ykara’s eyes flash. He has heard of her temper, has never had it turned on him before. “Not _yet,”_ she repeats. “You’ve had a week, you foolish  _brat!_ Another man would have had you thrown from the palace five days ago,” she hisses. “You have been exceeding lucky, and yet you continue to push that luck. But have it your way, if you like, and see how quickly he sends you back to the brothel whence you came, once I tell him that you need more _time_. He is a man of little patience, and you are testing it severely.”

There is something in her tone that gives Ren pause. “Does — does he miss me, then?” Ren asks, struck by this for the first time. He has been so caught up in his own head that he has hardly spared a thought for Hux, except in this terrible hatred-wanting that has entrapped him all week, and from which he still cannot break free. He had not thought that Hux would _miss_ him: only that he would be angry, as Ykara has implied; and too that somehow he knows, that he has guessed Ren’s secret and is letting him languish in torment before he strikes and exposes it all.

“Yes, he misses you, you insolent boy,” Ykara snaps. “He looks _lost_ without you at his side of an evening. He hardly smiles, anymore, and the court has grown quiet again, for fear of provoking his wrath.” She leans forward, willing him to listen, to understand. “You temper him. You keep him human.”

Ren is stunned into silence. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I — I didn’t know.”

Ykara leans back. “The rest of us suffer for your selfishness,” she says. “Have a care.”

“I have been ill,” Ren says one last time; and it is true, he has been suffering in his body and his mind. But he finds that, at last, things are beginning to resolve themselves, and very quickly too — for if Hux misses him, if Hux _needs_ him… “But I think I am better now,” he adds, giving Ykara a forced, weary smile. “I think I am much better. I think I’ll come down to supper, tonight.”

He has made the right choice. _The only choice,_ he knows now. _I choose him._

Ykara relaxes, and her hands unlace to pat at her coiffure, preening, pleased with herself and her machinations. “Good,” she says, all aggression gone from her tone. “We will be pleased to have you back. He will, too.”

Ren nods, acquiescing. “I want only to please him.”

He rises: Ykara has done so, and she goes now to the door, her heeled shoes tap-tapping on the parts of the floor not covered in rugs and furs. “You’d do best to remember that,” she tells him, turning to face him with one hand on the door. She leans in to kiss his cheek good-bye; she smells of face-powder and her thick amber perfume.  “I will see you at supper.”

“Goodbye, Ykara.” Already Ren feels ashamed of his retreat, his troubled nights, his anguish. He stops her with a hand on her arm as she opens the door and makes to leave: “And thank you,” he says quietly.

Ykara nods, and gives him her courtier’s smile, tight and practised and glittering; and then she is gone, and Ren is alone again.

He exhales. Slowly he turns back to face his bedchamber, and without calling for a maintenance droid he begins to clean the room: rearranging the sheets, thrown into disarray by his nighttime thrashings in dreams; drawing open the curtains to allow the rainy light in. He picks a gauzy pile of scattered clothes off the ground — he recognises them as those he was wearing on that first awful night, when Hux had told him about his father. He’d thrown them off in a daze, tumbled nude into bed, and they have lain here all week on the floor. He feels more stupid by the moment, gazing around at the mess he has made of it all. _Clean up._

He bathes properly at last, turning the shower to hydro to scrub the filth and sadness from his hair and skin, rubbing harshly at his face until it tingles. He steps out, dries himself, and goes to the wardrobe. He chooses a new ensemble — a gift from Hux he has not yet worn, all in deep shades of mulberry and plum, the fabrics rich and soft against his skin. He dresses and twists to see himself in the glass. _This will do,_ he thinks. Hux will know what he intends by it, and he hopes he will forgive him quickly.

He does not know what he will do if he does not.

*

He goes down to supper slightly late, so that all the court will be seated, and will see him make his entrance — his return. He approaches the arched entrance to the great hall, and takes a steadying breath before he steps over the threshold.

Determinedly, stopping to talk to no one, Ren makes straight for the high table, where Hux sits at the head. He is isolated, not conversing with anyone, Ren notes as he walks: Hux’s head is bent over his plate; he reaches for his wine stone-faced. Around him, his officials and courtiers are subdued, speaking quietly between themselves as if respecting the mourners at a wake. And Ren’s seat at his right hand is empty.

Among the lower tables, though, Ren’s entrance has not gone unnoticed. Heads turn to watch him, and murmurs start to rise, growing louder as he gets closer to the emperor’s table.

Soon enough those seated there see him too. They begin to nudge one another, to murmur too; and then, at last, Hux looks up from his brooding, and follows their gazes to Ren. Ren pauses at the foot of the dais and respectfully goes no further. He dips a deep, deep bow, and then drops to one knee and stays down.

The hall has fallen quiet.

“Ren of Theed,” Hux says at last, his voice ringing loud in the cavernous space. He stands from his seat, his palms flat on the table; every voice in the hall is silent, every ear is pricked. “I see you have decided to join the world of the living once again.”

Ren speaks to the floor, but at such a volume that the court can hear. “Yes, Majesty,” he says, his head bowed in submission. “I have been ill, as my lord knows — but the fates have looked kindly on me, and have not seen fit to take me from this world as yet.” He chances to look up through his hair, and sees Hux’s iron gaze fixed upon him. He lowers his eyes again. “I beg my lord’s forgiveness for my absence.”

“Mm.” Ren does not look up again, but he can imagine Hux’s gloved thumb stroking idly over his lips. “And why do you think I shall grant it to you, Ren of Theed?” the emperor asks him.

He’s toying with him: Ren hopes this is a good sign. _Were he truly angry, he’d have had me thrown from the hall already._

This time Ren dares to raise his head fully. “Why —” He pauses, and he can feel the hall straining to listen as he hesitates. “Why, because I have pled upon my knees, my lord,” Ren says. “Because I have been in torment, not being by your side. Because I have wept to be without you.” _All this is true._

Hux seems pleased by this: the hint of a smile flickers across his lips. “Is that so?” he asks.

Ren nods. “Yes, my lord. I swear it.” He swallows. “And I desire nothing more than to be forgiven, so that I might take up my place again — in your court, and in your heart.”

These last words are a chance, a dare. The ripple of sound that spreads through the court behind Ren suggests that his gamble was a lucky one, but the final answer lies with the emperor. Ren stands, and fixes his eyes on Hux’s — and he is relieved beyond words to see amusement there, acceptance; affection, even.

“Well,” Hux responds, playing with his audience as he has played with Ren, making them hang on his words and wait, “you will be relieved to find, Ren of Theed, that no one has yet taken your place in my court.” He gestures wryly to Ren’s empty seat at his side, and is rewarded with a nervous laugh from his courtiers. “And as for my heart —”

Hux pushes back his chair. He makes his way down from the table to the dais, the eyes of everyone in the hall fixed raptly on him. He comes to stand in front of Ren.

Ren’s heart pounds at his nearness. Immediately he goes to one knee again, and takes up the emperor’s hand, pressing a fervent kiss to the back of it: “My lord,” he whispers so only Hux can hear. _I have missed him so._

“As for my heart,” Hux repeats, softer now, his court hanging on his every word, “you will find that none can take your place there either.”

Ren closes his eyes and feels a smile spread across his face. _I am absolved._ “Thank you,” he whispers, still holding Hux’s hand. “Thank you.” Behind them the court breaks into gentle applause, and Ren feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Stand up, Ren,” Hux tells him, and he is smiling. _I forgive you,_ say his eyes, and Ren is so overwhelmed by relief that it is as if the past week has never happened, as if the nightmare he has lived was only that: a dream.

_I don’t care,_ he thinks wildly, as he stands again and Hux pulls him to him, kisses his mouth. _I don’t care anymore. What he did was in the past, and I want only the future — a future with him._

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote about Arkanis being "an army with a planet" was lovingly bastardised from [a similar saying about Prussia](http://www.dict.cc/english-german/Prussia+is+not+a+country+with+an+army+but+an+army+with+a+country+%5BHonor%C3%A9+Gabriel+Riqueti+comte+de+Mirabeau%5D.html), attributed to Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, comte de Mirabeau.


	7. Chapter 7

*

By way of a reward for ending his sulk, the next night Hux takes Ren to the opera. Ren has heard tonight’s oeuvre, or heard _of_ it, he thinks; something famous written at the time of the Old Empire, by now thoroughly out-of-fashion on Naboo, but still enjoyed on Arkanis. It’s one of Hux’s favourites (or so he told Ren) — but, as it happens, they are too busy to watch the show.

The opera house is a grand, columned structure in the heart of the capital, its creamy marble walls out-of-place among the grim, grey, functional buildings that line the city’s streets. Inside, the domed ceiling soars to the sky, windows offering a view of the dark rainy night outside; the walls are hung with holo-portraits of the artists who have sung and danced on the opera-house stage. (None of the portraits predate Hux’s father’s reign, Ren notes: this planet is new money, new glory, trying to pass itself off as old.)

The imperial party — a whole retinue of them, guards and courtiers and servants; this is an official court outing, tonight — files into the theater itself, and the audience, as one, rises to greet the emperor. Hux raises a hand and acknowledges them with a wave as his people bow and murmur, “Majesty.”

The emperor’s box sits high above the rest of the theater, thrusting forth from the first balcony with ostentation. Below, Ren can see the patrons in the parterre peering at them — at him — through gilded quadnocs.

 “The opera house was a gift from my father to his mistress,” Hux tells him with slight disapproval as they are climbing the stairs to the box, flanked by the Bodyguard. “At her request, it was designed by a Naboo, so I’m sure you’ll feel right at home amid all…this.” He gestures with distaste to the elaborate floral carvings and gilt plating that adorn the box.

Ren smiles. He sees Ykara’s touch on all of this, and Hux is right: it reminds him of the state theater back home in Theed. But _Ren,_ of course, has never been there, so he looks around him in wide-eyed wonder and says, “It’s marvellous, my lord. Like something from a story.”

He reaches Hux’s chair before the emperor does, and pulls it out for him, rewarded with the slightest of smiles from Hux. They are right back to how they were, and Ren is inexpressibly relieved.

He takes his own seat on the plush chair at Hux’s side and thumbs disinterestedly through the holo-programme on the datapad in front of him; he knows Hux will be explaining the story to him as the show goes on, and he’ll have to feign interest as best he can.

But it becomes clear that Hux has other plans for the evening when he turns round in his seat and says to Phasma (the only member of their entourage who’s come into the emperor’s box with them: it seats only two, and the rest of the party have been relegated to the smaller, less-sumptuous boxes on either side of this one), “You may go.”

Ren is surprised: at every state event, Phasma is a silent stoic presence behind the emperor, watching vigilantly over him and his court. Ren had assumed that she would remain close by them this evening, in such a public place — and, evidently, the captain had too, for her pale eyebrows rise. “Sir?” she asks.

Hux waves a hand. “Take up your post,” he says negligently: the rest of the Bodyguard are assembled outside the doors of the box. “We will be all right without you, tonight.”

Phasma hesitates, nods uncertainly, and then takes her leave of them. At the threshold, she shoots a suspect look back at Ren, and then shuts the doors hard behind her. Ren looks at Hux: “My lord?” he asks, a hint of playful provocation in his voice, beginning to anticipate something.

Hux smiles, his eyes gleaming. As the house lights dim and the buzz of pre-show chatter dies down, he gets up and draws the heavy velvet curtains across the front of the box, closing them off from the rest of the theater. “You’ll find the opera deadly dull,” he says nonchalantly. “We can better entertain ourselves, I think.”

Ren grins. Hux reaches for him.

By the start of the first aria they are kissing fiercely, Ren’s tunic shoved open and Hux’s hands fisting hungrily in his hair. As the soprano, onstage, trills a magnificent arpeggio, Hux orders him, “On your knees.”

Hux spreads his legs for him; Ren drops to the floor, makes quick work of Hux’s trouser fastenings. He is half-hard already and Ren knows exactly what will take him further. He wastes no time, licking up and down his shaft in practised, tantalising strokes before opening his mouth to take him inside. Hux groans — _“Good_ boy” — and spreads his legs farther, arching his hips to meet Ren’s mouth. Ren sucks, and swirls his tongue around the head of Hux’s cock, and gives the prettiest moans he can muster, knowing how well Hux likes him like this: his lips swollen, his head bent, thinking only of pleasing him.

He looks up through his long lashes and sees what he knew he would — Hux, glassy-eyed already, staring down at him as if mesmerised, his hands fisting in Ren’s hair and his lips half-parted in pleasure. Ren fixes his gaze as his mouth works, and Hux gives a long, loud moan. “Lovely creature,” he whispers, and then, louder, nearly cries out as Ren takes him farther down his throat, eyes glued to Hux’s all the while: _“Oh,_ you gorgeous thing.”

Onstage, the starring couple sing a passionate duet, and their vocal acrobatics hide the emperor’s noises of pleasure. Ren is achingly hard inside his loose flowing trousers; he wants to touch himself, desperately, but refrains, hoping Hux will be persuaded to finish him off instead. Hux cants his hips as Ren sucks him off, getting closer and closer to climax — the pair onstage finish their duet with a stunning minor chord, and Hux reaches his pleasure with a shout of Ren’s name, neatly masked by the roaring applause from down below.

Ren swallows as much as he’s able and discreetly wipes his mouth on his long, trailing sleeve. The emperor has slumped back in his velvet-covered seat, legs slack and lips still parted in the shape of Ren’s name; his trousers hang open, his jacket is mussed. He opens his eyes and murmurs to Ren on the ground, with all the exquisite satisfaction of the cat who has got the cream, “Well done, sweet thing.”

“My turn,” Ren insists capriciously. He straddles Hux’s hips and kisses him hard, interrupting the emperor’s laugh of surprise; Hux’s tongue darts into Ren’s mouth and he feels him shudder to taste himself there. Ren grinds his hips into Hux’s, demanding, greedy. Hux responds, knowing what Ren wants: he smiles wickedly up at him, and reaches one gloved hand down the front of Ren’s trousers.

Ren exhales as the emperor’s fingers wrap around his swollen cock. Hux keeps kissing him with his usual finesse even as he begins to stroke Ren off, his movements slow and teasing. Ren whines and bucks against him, his need for release mounting; he says against Hux’s mouth, “Please, sir, I want more,” and gets a low hiss in response.

“Beg,” Hux growls into Ren’s mouth. He bites at his bottom lip and Ren gives a high moan. “Tell me what you want, you little slut.”

Ren arches his neck to let the emperor kiss and bite his way down, rocking his hips against Hux. He grins, eyes squeezed tight shut in pleasure: he has missed this, this little game-that-is-no-game of master and servant, lord and his slave. “I want you to make me come,” he says, low and breathless. “I want you to touch my cock and make me come, _please,_ sir — I need you — need to come for you.”

“For me,” Hux repeats, breathing the words against Ren’s skin. “Only me. You belong to me. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Ren pants.

“I want to hear you say it.” Hux’s hand moves faster, and Ren nearly cries out. “Are you mine?” the emperor demands.

“I’m yours,” Ren breathes, working his hips in time with Hux’s strokes. The pleasure — the mere anticipation of it, after these strange days and nights apart — is so intense he nearly cannot bear it. “Oh, my lord, I am yours _,_ I am _yours —_ I’ll come for you, just for you, please, my lord, if you’ll let me – oh, let me come —”

“Good,” Hux murmurs. “Good boy. Come for me, now. Show me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” Ren moans. He gasps, and his body clenches, and then he is coming, spilling hot and thick over Hux’s leather-gloved hand, repeating helplessly, “Yours, Hux, I’m yours, all yours.”

Hux strokes him through the aftershocks until Ren is shuddering against him, going soft in his hand. He collapses forward against Hux’s shoulder, limp with exhaustion, his body ringing with pleasure. As Ren finds his breath the emperor kisses the side of his head and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” Ren says, all at once drowsy and dazed.

He climbs off the emperor’s lap, back into his own seat, and arranges his soiled clothes as best he can, draping his cloak over his lap; Hux, at his side, is peeling off his dirty glove with a look of mild satisfaction. (He’ll discard it, Ren knows, leave it somewhere and take the other one off too, and if anyone asks where his gloves have gotten to, Hux will fix them with an inquisitive stare and remark that he had not worn any gloves out tonight, surely he does not know what they mean.)

Ren leans back into his chair, registering dimly that the opera is still going on, that if anyone asks him how he liked the show, which song was his favourite, he will have absolutely nothing to say. He looks over at Hux and repeats what he had said: “I mean it, Hux. I _am_ yours.”

He has made his choice this past week, between his mission and the man he knows he loves. He stated it last night, before all the court, and he has confirmed it tonight. All he knows, tonight, are his own desires, and Hux, and how neatly the two intertwine.

 _The Resistance doesn’t need me,_ Ren thinks with reckless conviction, _but he does._

Hux smiles lightly. “I know,” he assures him.

*

While Ren had been “sulking,” as Ykara referred to his brief withdrawal from public life, the rest of the court had not been idle — least of all, Ren soon learns, the secret council in charge of Starkiller.

Barely a fortnight after Ren’s official return, Hux pushes back his chair at supper and stands, holding up his glass and clinking his dessert fork against it to call for silence. “I propose a toast,” the emperor announces, surprising everyone present: tonight is no special occasion, as far as anyone is aware. “I received magnificent news today,” Hux continues, and he glances around him, smiling: Ren notices for the first time that nearly every member of the weapons council has been seated at the high table with them. “My council has informed me that the Starkiller project has at last been completed.”

There is a moment of breathless, stunned silence, and then all at once the court breaks into raucous applause. Ren, briefly stupefied, soon recovers, and enthusiastically adds his own cheers to the din.

“The weapon is finished, and soon personnel will be transferred on-planet to begin operations and preparation for its first strike,” Hux calls above the joyous clamour, beaming proudly.

(His spy’s training still ingrained, Ren notes that he does not say where or when this strike will take place — nor who will be dispatched to the remote planet, how many forces. _He is careful, but not careful enough…)_

“Such a weapon in the New Empire’s hands will _end_ the Republic once and for all,” Hux continues passionately, his eyes glittering diamond-cold. “At this very moment, in a system far from here, the New Republic _lies_ to the galaxy, while secretly supporting the treachery of the loathsome Resistance. This fierce machine that we have built — this superweapon, this _Starkiller_  — will bring an end to the Senate, to their cherished fleet — and _all_ galactic systems will bow to the New Empire!” His words ring in the air.

“All hail the Emperor!” comes a voice from the crowd. In seconds, it is echoed by the hundreds in the hall: “All hail the Emperor! Long live Brendol Hux!”

His court cheers for him, standing from their seats and clapping heartily, every courtier and servant in the hall calling out his name and lauding the glory he will bring them. Ren stands, too, and watches as Hux grins fiercely out at them, drinking in their praise. Ren claps and claps and claps for him, and pushes back all traitorous thoughts of his mother, and his cousin, and his home planet, awaiting reports from him that have never come. _They know nothing of this,_ he thinks. _They will be taken completely by surprise —_ and he is startled to find that he does not care. _They are no longer my concern. I have thrown my lot in with him._

At last the applause dies down. The court retakes their seats, every face grinning and rosy with anticipation and pride. Hux surveys them proudly, and offers his sincere thanks to every councillor seated at the high table, toasting them once and then again. The last of the after-dinner drinks are consumed in convivial glee, and then it is time for the emperor to retire.

He rises again, nods to his people, and leaves them to celebrate, taking Ren by the hand. He follows gladly, buoyed on the spirits of the night and Hux’s own jubilation, palpable even without the Force.

In Hux’s rooms, the emperor tosses off his evening-coat and sinks down onto a settee, giving a deeply contented sigh. Without being asked, Ren fetches a bottle of wine — the Old Imperial red that Hux favours — and pours two cut-crystal glasses, handing one to his emperor before toeing off his shoes and curling up next to Hux. “I had no idea it was so near completion, my lord,” he comments, taking a sip of his wine and humming in pleasure as its sweet, rich flavours wash over his tongue. “I had thought we would have to wait far longer.”

“No,” Hux responds, sounding eminently pleased as he takes a deep sip. “My engineers have proven themselves spectacularly capable. The weapon, they inform me, is fully operational, and we are now planning its first strike, to take place within the next two standard months.”

He stretches out an idle hand, beckoning Ren closer, and eagerly he goes. The emperor strokes Ren’s hair, scratching at his scalp as if he were a lap-dog, and Ren closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“What will its first target be?” Ren asks. He thinks distantly of his mother again, and how vital this information would be to her, but still he makes no move to open a Force-bond, and no plan to tell her later on. “A planet, I should think?”

Hux gives a low, devilish laugh. “A whole _system._ The Hosnian.”

Ren opens his eyes. He shifts so he is facing Hux, looking him in the eyes to see if he jests — and finds the emperor’s face serious. “It’s that powerful?” he asks, startled.

 _“Yes,_ Ren. Now the base is complete, no force in the galaxy will be able to stand in our way,” Hux tells him, a fervent priest to his acolyte. “The Republic — the _Resistance:_ they will be nothing compared to the New Empire. Such a weapon has never been seen before. The Death Star pales in comparison; it was a meagre thing, a child’s toy.” A smile crosses his lips like the blade of a knife. “Starkiller,” he says, soft, as if it were the name of a lover.

“Starkiller,” Ren repeats. He feels dizzy, intoxicated with Hux’s visions.

“Come,” Hux says impetuously, setting down his glass on the side-table. He rises from the settee and holds out a hand; Ren puts down his own glass and takes it. Hux leads him to the terrace, the cold clean air hitting their faces. The night unfurls across the heavens, jewel-studded black velvet like the robe on Ren’s back. Ren breathes in: a cool dampness; rain and granite; the flowers in the gardens. Hux’s fingers twine through his.

“This,” Hux says softly, indicating with a sweep of his arm the whole of the sky before them, “could all be mine. It _will_ be mine, Ren. It will be ours. Imagine.”

“All the galaxy,” Ren murmurs — and then he realises what Hux has said: “Ours?”

“Ours,” Hux repeats. “Yes.” He turns to Ren. His eyes burn. Ren wants the flames to lick his skin, consume him. “You will be by my side, and the galaxy will bow before us.” He kisses him. Ren moans, a low hungry sound against his mouth. The sky is alive above them.

Hux pulls back from their embrace and gazes up at the heavens, his eyes afire.

“Mine,” he whispers. Ren doesn’t know if he means him or the stars. He kisses him, greedy, and thinks, _Both. Both._

“Yours.”

*

 “Can’t we go into the city later this week?” Ren calls to Hux late one afternoon, a week after Starkiller’s completion.

He’s dressed for dinner and waiting for Hux, perched on a divan in the emperor’s rooms and paging through a holosite on his datapad to see what entertainments the capital currently has in store. He has the urge to get out of the palace and go into the city for a while, spend a few days holed-up in the emperor’s town residence, taking in operas and plays and strolling down to the waterside, just him and Hux. Even Starkiller’s completion has not kept Hux from being fanatically busy, but his schedule seems finally to be lightening, and Ren hopes to persuade him to take a sojourn for a while.

Hux, in his dressing-room, pokes his head out the door. He’s frowning. “No, Ren. I thought I told you,” he says, disappearing for a moment and reappearing with his shirt on, beginning to fasten it up. “I leave for Drezzi in two mornings’ time.”

Ren sets the datapad down. “What?”

Hux’s fingers pause at his collar. “Don’t you recall? The queen has invited me to stay.”

Ren closes his eyes. _Drezzi. Of course._

Before their falling-out, Hux had begun planning a state visit to the Empire’s allies on Drezzi: that planet’s queen had invited him to be a guest in her court as they undertook negotiations for a treaty of some kind. Ren had not paid attention to the specifics; he knew only that he would not be accompanying Hux, for, as the emperor had informed him, the Drezzi are a highly conservative people, and would not take kindly to (as some indignant member of the Drezzian royal staff put it in an official communiqué that Hux passed on to Ren, his mouth twisting with black humour), his “swanning round their most sacred palace with some filthy brothel-slave.”

“Now _I_ know, and you know, and _my_ court knows that what you are to me is much more than that, Ren,” Hux had told him, stroking his cheek as Ren frowned at the news; “but although Drezzi is small, it is rich in ores and precious stones that will be a great boon to the Empire’s coffers, and for the sake of the treaty I am afraid I cannot risk offending its queen or her people.”

Ren had protested, and Hux had soothed him with kisses and sweet words, promising that he would not be away for long, and that they could keep in touch via HoloNet “as easily as if I were still on Arkanis.”

Ren had been startled — “Am I to be permitted full use of the HoloNet, then?” he’d asked, and Hux had scoffed and waved a hand and said, “Yes, of course, that was a silly restriction that should have been lifted months ago. Phasma wanted me to be cautious, and I have been — but it’s _you,_ Ren, my sweet thing. Of course I can trust you.”

All this, of course, had been utterly forgotten in the wake of Ren’s learning the truth about his father’s death and the strange separation that followed; but now, nearly a month later, Hux and Ren reunited and everything smoothed-over between them, the trip crops up again, and Ren likes the idea no better now.

“I remember,” he says, biting his lip in displeasure. “I’m not to go with you.”

“Oh, Ren, don’t sulk,” Hux cajoles him, coming out from his dressing-room with his dinner jacket slung over his arm. He drops it on the divan and sits down next to Ren, taking his chin between his fingers and looking him in the eye. “You know I don’t like to leave you, but the queen will not be pleased if you come with me. I’ve already agreed to go alone.”

“How long will you be away?” asks Ren, aware that he sounds like a sullen child, but peeved to see his plans for a few days alone disappearing before his eyes.

“Not long,” Hux tells him, but he hesitates. “Just a fortnight. Perhaps — perhaps a little longer.” He avoids Ren’s gaze, guilty.

“Two weeks!” Ren must surely look wounded, for Hux glances at him and then catches up his hands and pleads with him:

“Oh, Ren, you’ll be just fine on your own! The staff know you, the court likes you — you’ll have the run of the palace like you always do, nothing will be any different because I’m not here. You can go into town if you’d like,” he adds, wheedling, as if he’d pulled the thought from Ren’s head. “I can ask them to make the house ready for your use. Spending some time in the city, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not without you,” Ren says.

Hux sighs. “I’m sorry, Ren,” he says, all gentleness now. “You know I want you with me, but it wouldn’t be prudent. I can’t risk Drezzi’s support.” He kisses the palm of Ren’s hand. “It’s only a little while. I’ll be back before you’ve even noticed I’m gone,” he assures him; and though Ren huffs and sighs, stung that he’s going, irritated with himself for forgetting, eventually he gives in, for he has no other choice.

“Fine,” he acquiesces, as if it makes a difference. “I want to hear from you, though. Every day.”

“Of course,” Hux promises. He smiles, devilish: “I’ll set up a secure channel on your datapad before I go. Just for us.”

Ren catches his meaning, and smiles back, warming slightly to the situation. He leans over and kisses Hux, giving him his assent, and then stands from the couch. “Come on,” he reminds him; “we’ll be late for supper.”

They pass the next two days together, Ren coming to all of Hux’s meetings and audiences; as dull and endless as they are, he puts up with the boredom for the sake of being with him. In the afternoons they escape to Hux’s rooms for a while, and they talk with their heads bent close at supper, and the nights they spend relishing in each other, with the knowledge that they will soon be deprived looming over their heads.

Finally the morning of his departure dawns. Hux had insisted that Ren not wake up with him, for his shuttle leaves early, before sunrise. But when Hux wakes in the dark, Ren stirs too, and, naked, sits up in bed as Hux creeps quietly around to dress and fetch his things.

“Don’t go,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes.

Hux looks up, startled. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, pulling on his gloves and coming over to kiss him. “It’s too early, you weren’t supposed to wake.”

“I wanted to say goodbye.” Ren yawns. They were up late last night: his muscles ache, and fresh love-bites mark his throat. He reaches for Hux when the emperor makes to pull away, and kisses him again, insistent; Hux laughs against his lips and then disengages himself from Ren’s embrace.

“I have to go,” he reminds him. His wrist-comm lights up: “There’s Phasma now,” he says, checking the message. “The shuttle is ready. They’re waiting on me.”

“I’ll go down with you.” Ren throws off the covers and gets out of bed, reaching blindly for the clothes he’d discarded the night before. Hux makes a noise of half-hearted protest, but waits, smiling, as Ren dresses. “Come on.”

They walk through the sleeping palace, out the back doors, and down the hill to the landing-pad, where Hux’s private shuttle waits, its engines humming as they warm up. The sun is just beginning to rise, and its weak light hits Captain Phasma’s blaster where it rests on her hip, glinting cold and chrome. She folds her arms when she sees Ren coming down the path with Hux. “Good morning, my lord,” she greets the emperor, bowing and kissing his hand. To Ren she offers only a glare.

“Good morning, Captain,” Hux returns, marking their exchange. “Is everything prepared?”

“Your luggage is stowed and the pilot is waiting.” She glances at Ren again: “I had thought he wasn’t coming.”

“Ren will not be joining us,” Hux answers coolly, knowing full well that Phasma knows this. “He merely came down to bid me goodbye.”

Phasma’s eyes flick disapprovingly over Ren’s wrinkled clothing and sleep-tangled hair: it is obvious that he has just come from Hux’s bed. He gives the captain an insipid smile, and she turns her gaze away.

“Please, sir,” she says brusquely, “if you’ll follow me — we should be going.”

“A moment.” Hux hands her his datapad and travel bag, and, when she doesn’t take the hint, requests impatiently, “Put those on board, if you will, and see if there’s anything to be had for breakfast. Thank you.”

She turns and stalks off to the ship to do as she is bid, and Hux turns back to Ren. He takes his hands: they are chilly in the morning air. “Now, Ren,” he says, his voice soft, “be good. Enjoy yourself in town; I’ll contact you as soon as I arrive, and every night I’m away, I promise. It’s only an hour’s time change.”

“I know,” Ren says. He sighs. “Two weeks.”

“That’s nothing,” Hux promises. He kisses Ren’s cheek. Behind them, the shuttle’s engines are starting up.

“Be safe,” Ren tells him. He bites back muted fears of assassins, hijackers, pretenders’ plots.

“And you.” Hux kisses him. “Goodbye, my love. I’ll see you soon.” With a last squeeze of Ren’s hand he turns and strides across the tarmac, his black coat billowing in the chill damp breeze.

It will storm today, Ren thinks: melancholy weather to match his mood. Hux climbs the landing ramp and, at the top, just before the gangplank ascends, pauses to wave down to Ren.

He lifts his own hand in farewell, and then the ramp has sealed itself, and Hux is gone. Moments later, the shuttle’s engines fire up, flaring blue in the dim morning light; and then it takes off, and soars far overhead, into the rain-grey sky. Ren watches until the mountains obscure it from his view.

He goes back inside the palace alone. He had thought to go back to bed — it’s early still; normally he would not rise for another two hours or more — but he finds he cannot sleep. Curious about the HoloNet, now that he has been granted full privileges, he fetches his own datapad and logs on.

He pulls up a news site, eager to see what has been going on in the galaxy in his absence, beyond what Rey and his mother have told him. He scrolls with disinterest past news of a natural disaster on Sullust, a risky trade agreement between Coruscant and the impoverished moon Jedha, a society wedding on Brentaal IV…and is soon confronted with the face of the man to whom he has just bid farewell.

The holo is fairly recent — Ren recognises it as having been taken at a function on Arkanis just a few months ago, near the beginning of his time here — and is accompanied by the headline _Emperor Hux To Visit Drezzi, Negotiate Resource Treaty._

So Hux’s trip has made the inter-system news. Ren is not surprised; he is impressed, though, by the speed at which the story has broken, how quickly the galaxy has been informed. He opens the article and reads a few lines — a summary of the nature of the trade agreement, a brief profile of the aging Drezzian queen, a mention of how long Hux will be away. The article notes that he is accompanied by only a small party, including the captain of his personal guard, _but not the Imperial favourite, the Nabooian youth known only as Ren…_

Ren closes the window, uninterested in learning what he already knows. He soon realises, though, that those who _didn’t_ know about Hux’s trip now will — and that that includes his own family, on Naboo.

 _They will see this as the perfect chance,_ he realises. _They’ll think I’ve been waiting for him to leave before I pass on any more information to them; they’ll think I’ve been being cautious. They’ll see that I’ve stayed behind, and they will expect to hear from me. I no longer have an excuse._

He sets the datapad down, struck with anxiety. He has two choices, he sees now: reopen communications with his family first, or wait until they reach out to him. The first will reassure them, perhaps buy him more time — he can always dissuade them, provide more excuses and delay, delay, delay…but the second will be easier. _Perhaps they won’t try and get in touch at all,_ he thinks hopefully, aware that it’s foolish. But all the same, he decides merely to wait. _I am no longer their creature,_ he reminds himself. _I don’t answer to them any longer._

Satisfied with his choice (ignoring the voice in his head that cries _coward),_ he turns off the datapad and crawls back into bed fully clothed. He pulls Hux’s pillow close to him: it still smells of the emperor’s hair. Ren sighs deeply, thinking of what he’ll have to do, later on — pack to go into town, say goodbye to Ykara and invite her to join him at the opera…but for now, he closes his eyes, and falls immediately back to sleep. His mind is untroubled; he has no dreams.

*

He is settled in the town-house by the early evening. Informed of Ren’s intentions, the staff have been through in the past two days, opening up all the rooms to air them out, freshening the bed-linens, and stocking the kitchen with sufficient provisions for at least a few days’ stay. Ren has not requested that the house’s hospitality droids be put into commission. He plans to cook for himself: his father taught him, unwilling and perhaps unable to raise a child in absolute indulgence, to bestow upon him no practical skills whatsoever — before he was king of anything, Han Solo was a mendicant smuggler, and valued independence above all. Ren thinks he’ll be able to manage cleaning by himself, too; the house is small, and he is only one man.

So once his luggage has been brought in from the speeder, Ren fixes himself a simple supper in the marble-floored kitchen. He finds sufar greens and the soft, sharp Arkanisian cheese he favours in the refrigeration unit, and Frangi spice-cake in the pantry; there is even a bottle of good white wine on the counter.

He eats in the parlour, looking out the tall viewports at the city square below. Dusk gathers above the drab grey rooftops. The buildings are flat-faced, dull; utilitarian and unlovely, even here, in the heart of the empire. He thinks of Naboo sunsets, of the beautiful, landscaped streets of Theed, and feels a pang of homesick longing for the first time in weeks.

Ren pushes back his chair and goes to clean up. He pours himself another glass of wine and fetches his datapad; he takes a seat on the couch in the parlour and pages idly through the various things he might do and see tonight — but he has gotten no further than a museum exhibition showcasing late-First-Imperial armour and weapons when his datapad chimes with an incoming call.

  _Private caller,_ reads the notification. Ren smiles.

“I miss you,” he says, as soon as Hux’s face appears on the screen. “It’s been too long already.”

The emperor grins. “Why, Ren, it’s been — what, six hours? Seven?”

“Eight,” Ren answers promptly.

Hux laughs. “You’re a child,” he says, but his tone is affectionate. He peers behind Ren, recognising his surroundings: “You’ve decamped to town after all, then? They let me know you’d left.”

Ren nods. He leaves his empty wine-glass on the table and pads into the bedroom. “I’ve been here maybe two hours,” he says. “It’s empty without you.” Carefully, he props the datapad on the bed, camera facing out, and goes to root through his luggage in search of sleeping-clothes. “Are you alone?” he tosses over his shoulder.

On the screen, Hux gives an arch grin. “Of course,” he says. He leans back, adjusts his own datapad so that Ren can see where he is: a small, dim-lit bedroom, presumably in the royal palace on Drezzi. “See what you’re missing?” Hux asks, moving the camera slowly so that Ren can take in the four-poster bed carved of heavy dark wood, the dreary stone walls and arrow-slit windows. “It’s hardly a palace at all,” he complains, half in jest. “And the Drezzi are so _dull._ I can tell already that I’ll be deadly bored the whole time I’m here.”

His words are leading, an invitation — Ren takes it willingly. He smiles. “I think I could liven things up for you, if you’d like.” His hands move to the fastenings of his tunic, and undo them slowly.

“You’re too kind,” Hux purrs.

Ren watches as he settles himself on the bed, the datapad on his lap. Ren’s tunic hangs open now, and he strips it off, exposing his stomach — growing soft after months of rich food and languor — and his arms.

Hux gives an appreciate murmur. “Is that all?” he asks, when Ren pauses, topless.

 “Of course not,” Ren replies. “We’ve just begun.” He slides his trousers and under-things down over his hip-bones, and stands before the camera nude. His cock is beginning to stiffen, and he reaches down to take it in hand, running idle fingers over its length. Hux sighs. “Good, my lord?”

“More,” Hux requests. “Get on the bed.”

Ren complies. He sits against the headboard and holds the datapad on his knees, positioning it so the camera sees between his thighs, his cock flushed and resting against his stomach.

“Touch yourself,” Hux commands him, his voice low and pleased.

Ren does as he asks. His hand is warm and dry; with the other, he fumbles in the bedside drawer for the lubricant he’d stowed there when unpacking, suspecting it would come in use. He squeezes the oil into his right palm and wraps his slickened hand around his cock again, humming with satisfaction at the smooth glide of skin on skin.

On the screen, Hux’s eyes have darkened with want, and he wets his full lips with his tongue. “Beautiful,” he pronounces. “Such a pretty show, and all for me.”

“Don’t I get anything in return?” Ren pouts, shifting his hips. They could be following a script; they each know exactly what they want, and too just how to get it.

“Persuade me,” Hux fires back. His hand trails teasingly down his own clothed chest and stomach, to rest on the closures of his formal trousers. “Show me you deserve it.”

“I wish you were here,” Ren says. He reaches up with his free hand to twist and tug at his nipples, languid and unhurried. “I wish you were touching me.”

“What would you want me to do, if I were there?”

Ren looks into the screen, into Hux’s green eyes. “I’d want you to fuck me,” he says, the filthy word spilling sweetly from his lips.

Hux hums his assent. He moves his hands up and begins undoing the fastenings of his shirt, slowly: a reward. “Show me how.”

Ren’s skin tingles. He reaches for the lubricant again and tips more into his hand, coats two fingers; he works himself open with care, still tender from the night before. He adds a third, and presses in up to his second knuckles. “Like this, my lord.”

“You want my cock inside you, don’t you, Ren?” Hux fairly coos. His pale skin is flushing, prettily. “You need it. It’s only been a day, and look at you, you lovely slut; oh, look how much you need me.”

“Yes,” Ren murmurs, fucking himself slowly on his fingers, shuddering at the pleasure-pain. “I need you here, Hux, I need you with me — need you inside me,” he tells him. “Always. Every night.”

Finally, rapidly, Hux unbuttons his own trousers, carefully balancing the datapad with one hand so that Ren can see as he springs himself free. Ren exhales with him as the emperor lays a hand on his cock; Hux’s eyes flutter shut at the touch, and he gives a low moan.

“Good boy,” he whispers. “Oh, I wish I could have brought you with me. You could have stayed hidden, kept locked away in our room — warming my bed all day, ready for me when I came back in the evening —” Hux inhales, shuddering, at the thought. “My own sweet boy, my sweet pet.”

“Yours, yours, yours,” Ren hums like a mantra as he moves his free hand back to his cock and strokes in time with Hux. They fall silent but for their shallow, hitching breathing, growing quicker as they bring themselves closer and closer to climax, together. Ren works his fingers ever-so-slightly deeper inside himself, gasping; on the screen Hux’s hair is falling in his eyes, and he reaches up to push it aside, his hips bucking tightly.

“I’m going to come,” Ren pants out, feeling the tightening in his groin, the pleasure building to a head. “Oh Hux, I’m going to — I’m so close, _ah —”_

“I want to see,” Hux says, low in his throat, his fingers clenching around his own cock; and Ren comes with a wordless gasp, spattering his bare chest white. Seconds later, Hux gives a sharp cry and comes too, and Ren has the pleasure of watching him, his head thrown back and his legs quivering, muscles taut; his elegant fingers scrabble for purchase in the bedsheets as his body is wracked with pleasure, his cock pulsing in his hand. The fresh rush of arousal that courses through Ren at the sight is almost painful, too much too soon, and he bites back a cry.

“Thank you,” Hux breathes, when they have both recovered slightly. He sits up straighter in bed, fumbling somewhere unseen for a cloth to clean himself with (Ren smiles; _he planned this)._ “That should tide me over until tomorrow, at least,” he adds slyly.

“So long?” Ren pulls a pretty moue.

“I’ll hardly be able to concentrate in my meetings for thinking of you,” Hux promises, a smirk tugging at his lips. “The queen will have to forgive me my distraction; it’s her fault for not letting me bring you with me.” He shifts in bed, checks the wrist-comm he still wears, and gives a heavy sigh. “On the topic of meetings, they start in six hours. I had best get some sleep.”

Ren sighs, too: “If you must.” But he, too, is growing tired, from a day of travel and an early start. He can only imagine how Hux feels; hyperspace travel has a curious way of completely draining one’s energy, but only hours after the fact. He yawns, and sees Hux smile and then yawn too.

“To bed with you,” Hux urges him. “It’s late, there. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Ren protests. “It’s you who needs to rise early. Go on.”

“All right, sweet thing, don’t chide me.” Hux sets the datapad down and disappears from the screen. Ren takes his absence to go clean himself up, brush his teeth and wash his face and slip into his sleeping-clothes. He returns to bed and keeps the datapad open to the camera screen, showing the faded, frescoed ceiling of Hux’s palace room. His eyes are beginning to grow heavy when he hears a rustle and Hux’s gentle voice: “Ren?”

“I’m still here,” Ren murmurs. He settles down for bed, climbing under the covers and positioning the datapad on the pillow beside him, where Hux’s head would normally rest. “There.”

“It’s as if I never left,” Hux says, amused. “Now, go to sleep,” he bids him, soft and sweet. “Make believe I’m holding you. It’s only a few more nights.”

“Goodnight, Hux. I love you.”

“And I you. Sleep well, my love, my Ren.”

In the morning he wakes to a message: _You look so lovely when you sleep._ Ren checks the private vid channel they were using, and sees that the log extends for nearly an hour after they’d said their goodnights. Hux had kept vigil for all that time before going to sleep himself. Ren is absurdly, fiercely touched.

He sends back his reply, though he knows Hux’s business day has already started:

_I dreamt of you last night, like always. Was I smiling in my sleep?_

_Yes,_ comes the reply some hours later. _I’ve never seen you so at peace._

Ren smiles. He takes this as a sign: he is where he needs to be.

*

The rest of the two weeks of Hux’s absence pass torturously slowly. For the first few nights, they make good use of the private channel, reaching their pleasure together before going to sleep; on one memorable occasion, Hux produces the toy he has brought with him, and demands that Ren watch him, not touching himself, as he fucks himself with it. Ren comes shouting when finally Hux lets him, for the first time grateful that he is alone in the townhouse.

Their separation is bearable, knowing that they are still together, in a way, every night. During the day, Ren lazes about with no agenda, for perhaps the first time in his life: sleeping late as he likes, touching himself when he wakes, wondering what Hux is doing, if he misses him. He takes long walks through the city streets, his colourful Nabooian garb drawing curious stares from people in the streets, who surely know who he is by now. He flashes charming smiles to them all, knowing his position secure.

Ykara comes to visit on the first week-end, and they go to the ballet one night and the opera the next. Ren ignores the heavy bronze quadnoculars in his lap and lets his mind wander, remembering the last time he and Hux attended, and it takes a hiss and a pinch from Ykara to let him know that the show has finished and he should stand and join in the applause, for the lead singers are bowing to the imperial box, and awaiting — in lieu of the emperor’s — his, Ren’s, approval.

They go out with the company after, and over a sumptuous supper and dessert Ren deflects the drunken attentions of a simpering Zeltron tenor, swilling sparkling wine and thinking of what awaits him at home. On their vid-chat that night, he tells Hux of the man: Hux’s jealousy is sparked, as Ren had intended, and he comes moaning Hux’s name over and over, assuring the emperor that he is his, only his. Afterwards, as every night, Ren requests, “Tomorrow,” and Hux repeats it back to him: a promise.

But on the ninth morning of his absence, Hux sends him a message to say that the queen is taking him on a tour of the provinces, and that they won’t have another opportunity for their nighttime rendezvous until they’ve returned to the palace. Ren — who when he’d received the alert had seized his datapad eagerly, hoping for a morning tryst — sighs, slumping back onto the pillows.

He recognises that he should be surprised, alarmed even, by this spoiled, pampered creature he has become: living only for pleasure, sulking like a child when it is denied him, even for a day —  _betraying your home, your family for him, for this tyrant,_ whispers a voice of conscience in his head — but he no longer cares.

He picks up the tablet and sends Hux his disappointment. _Soon I’ll be home to you,_ comes the emperor’s reply; and Ren, soothed, smiles.

The provincial tour ends up lasting the rest of Hux’s trip. He sends Ren a quick message to say as much, after he has been gone for four days (four days, four nights of Ren satisfying himself with memories, fantasies, nearly frenzied for want of Hux’s touch on his skin, even his face on the screen). Grudgingly, Ren makes plans for the last two nights of his stay in the city — parties and dinners and the theatre with Ykara and her circle; makes the most of Arkanis’ limited social scene just to have something to do, to occupy himself without Hux.

 _There is no point without him; I have nothing, I am nothing without him,_ he thinks, drunk and stupid one night, dancing with his arms slung round the neck of a girl with hair as red as Hux’s; and these thoughts still ring true when he’s sober.

Finally he returns to the palace. Two weeks in town have nearly made him forget how to behave there. At the first court dinner back, he knows he laughs too loudly, partakes of too much wine. He can feel the disapproving stares of the courtiers, which serve to remind him of two things: _You are no longer in the city. You don’t have them without him._ Ren retires early to avoid further embarrassment. He sleeps in Hux’s bed and misses him.

But at long last he, too, returns home. Hux sends word of his departure early in the morning; he will arrive late in the evening. Ren spends the day in a fit of impatience, ordering droids around to tidy the emperor’s rooms, to make them perfect to welcome him home; he changes his own clothes three times, settling finally on the outfit he’d worn the very first night he went to him. He is nearly beside himself with the need to see him, to touch him again, and fiercely represses the lingering concern that _this is too much, you have gone too far, you are no longer the same man who came here. You need him too much. You love him too much._

 _I know,_ Ren answers the voice in his head. Though he knows it is not, that it can’t be, the voice sounds queerly like Rey’s. _And he needs me, he loves me too. The mission is nothing; I only want him._

A small party goes down to meet the emperor’s shuttle when it comes in: Ren and Ykara lead it, followed by a knot of high-ranking councillors and courtiers, as well as the rest of the Bodyguard, who did not accompany Hux and their captain abroad. They wait on the tarmac, the wind whipping their cloaks and robes and hair; a half-hearted rain patters down, erratic, the drops landing like jewels on the diaphanous fabric Ren wears. He shivers, and cranes his neck anxiously to the sky.

The clouds are darkening; the shuttle is late; everyone murmurs, checking their chronos, wondering if perhaps they are too early, if they have got something wrong? Ren’s shoulders are tight; Ykara gives him an understanding glance, willing him to relax. He dares not say a word, but inside his head he is screaming, imagining all manner of unbearable tragedies that might have befallen the emperor’s party…

But finally the roar of shuttle-engines can be discerned beneath the growing howl of the wind. Ren’s ears prick up, and he strains on his toes, scanning the blue-black sky: the others have heard it too, and relief shows on everyone’s faces. _The empire is safe,_ Ren imagines them thinking, nearly laughing, despite his own fear, at that too-familiar courtly feeling. The noise of engines grow louder, and now finally here is a dark shape cresting the mountains, repulsor-lifts glowing blue in the gathering night.

The shuttle approaches, and makes a slow descent, sending the wind whipping harder. Ren squints in the whirlwind to watch as it lands, holding his hand to his forehead and keeping his stinging eyes determinedly open until it has touched down safely. The landing-lights blink, the engines hum, the ship settles; and now there is a hydraulic hiss, and the gangplank is being opened and let down.

Ren had promised himself to maintain his composure — to stay with the party, to greet Hux respectfully, in his turn — but somewhere in the unexpected stress of his late arrival, this resolve has evaporated. Before he knows it he is running across the tarmac in his flimsy shoes, ignoring Ykara’s sharp word of warning; and he is there, the first to greet him, as the emperor descends the gangplank, looking weary and drawn.

“Hux!” Ren’s shout is anything but courtly, joyful excitement and relief bursting out of him.

The emperor looks up, startled — and he is transformed when he sees him. A smile breaks over his face, and he hurries down the ramp, his boots clicking loudly — ten steps more, five, two — and now he is sweeping Ren into his arms, pulling him close, pressing a kiss to the side of his head: “Ren,” he sighs into his hair, in that voice that Ren has missed, has craved.

“You’re home,” Ren breathes against his neck, burying his head in his shoulder and smelling the scent of him, underneath the clinging, dusty musk of space travel. His body sings to have him near again. “I’ve missed you, Hux, oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Hux pulls back, takes Ren’s face in his hand, and lifts it to kiss him. Ren opens his mouth for him, eager, and they kiss passionately until Phasma, who has followed Hux down the gangplank, gives an exasperated cough. “Hush, Captain,” Hux chides her when they pull apart, his face still pressed close to Ren’s. “We have been apart for so long, you can hardly blame us…”

“I’ll have your things brought in.” Phasma gives a huff and departs to make arrangements, barking orders as she stalks away; Hux laughs, and Ren laughs too, and their lips meet again.

“How was the trip?” Ren asks, once the drizzle of rain has grown to a persistent, chilly stream and finally torn them away from each other. He tucks his arm under Hux’s as they make their way across the tarmac back to the palace. The welcoming party, once they saw Hux arrive safely, hurried back to the palace ahead of the growing storm, and Phasma and the other servants and droids have gone on with Hux’s luggage.

“Oh, uneventful,” Hux says, waving a hand. “I was entertained nicely, dinners and recitals and speeches, as you’d expect — but a persistent current of _disapproval_ ran through my whole stay,” he adds, sounding drily amused. “I didn’t bring you, as they’d requested, but I suppose knowing that you were still waiting, pining for me at home, was still too much for their morals to handle…” He laughs. “Ah, well. The queen was able to put aside her prejudice long enough to sign the treaty. All went as planned; our terms were met; Drezzi’s assets are the Empire’s, now. A most successful visit — but it would, of course, have been more _exciting_ had you been there.”

“What, did I not entertain you well enough?” Ren teases. “I’m sorry, my lord. I’ll do better now you’re back.”

“I look forward to it.” Hux kisses him again, quick and teasing, and then pulls back; they have reached the palace doors, and soon enough they are swung open for them, Hux’s arrival announced:

“His Majesty the Emperor, returned from abroad!”

Inside the foyer a flock of courtiers wait. Hux has hardly stepped over the threshold, a cool smile on his face and one hand raised in greeting, before he is rushed with a swarm of petitioners and officials presenting him with urgent business: “Sir,” Ren hears from all sides, “sir, your attention is required, please —”

“A moment, Arxen,” Ren hears Hux address the nearest petitioner cordially. “And you, Garath — have the new agreements been drawn up? Excellent, have the drafts brought to my study — Malit, please, address your concerns to Captain Phasma…” He glances back over his shoulder at Ren as the babble increases around him, and rolls his eyes, a half-smile on his lips. _I’m sorry,_ he mouths, giving a minute shrug.

 _I understand,_ Ren mouths back sympathetically. _Later._

Hux nods. He turns back to the anxious-looking woman trying to get his attention: “Yes, Verdell, what is it? The Murkhanans again? Very well…”

Ren smiles. _He’s home._ He leaves Hux in the bustle and goes back to his own rooms to dress for dinner, knowing he’ll have his full attention in just a few short hours. He fully intends to make up for lost time, and suspects Hux will not object; and indeed:

“I’ve been dreaming of this,” Hux gasps, as they tumble into his bed after supper. They’d retired even sooner than usual, to the quiet, knowing titters of the court, and near-raced to Hux’s rooms, tugging off their clothes as soon as the door had locked behind them, and then had reached for each other before even fully undressing, too impatient to wait any longer before touching again. _“Stars,_ Ren, I’ve needed this — I’ve needed you.”

Ren kisses him hungrily, his fingers plucking greedily at the buttons of Hux’s jacket, working them open even as they kiss. Hux reaches down to grip Ren’s ass and he gives a sound of open-mouthed lust against the emperor's lips.

“Not the same without you,” Ren growls, succeeding in undoing Hux’s jacket and nearly tearing it off of him, and the shirt underneath it too. Hux makes quick work of his trouser buttons as Ren moves to do the same with his own. “I fucked myself and thought of you but it’s not the same, never the same — I need you to touch me,” he says raggedly, his breaths coming hard. “Need you to fuck me.”

They are both naked now, finally; Ren’s cock is fully hard, wet at the tip. “Get on the bed,” Hux tells him breathlessly, his eyes flicking between Ren’s legs, a wicked smile breaking across his face. “On your back.”

Ren complies. Hux climbs between his legs, licks the head of his cock: “You _have_ missed me,” he murmurs with satisfaction, as Ren yelps and writhes at his touch.

“Fuck me,” Ren pleads again, as Hux leans back again and reaches for the bedside drawer. “I need you, I need you.”

“What do we say, Ren?” Hux uncaps the bottle and squeezes gel onto his hand; Ren’s eyes fix, hungry, on Hux’s fingers, slim and wet, as they wrap around his own cock and slick it.

“Please,” he begs, feeling a tug of lust in his stomach at the very act of it.

“Please what?” Hux wets his fingers again, and now moves to open Ren: he gasps and parts his legs for him, moaning as Hux slides one, two, and then three fingers inside of him, and wriggling at the stretch.

 _“Please._ Please fuck me, Hux,” Ren gasps out, and whines as Hux withdraws his fingers. “Sir. My lord. Please, Hux, I need you, need you inside me, now —  _please —”_

“There’s a good boy,” says Hux, smiling down at him. Impetuous, he leans forward and presses a kiss to his lips. “Legs up.”

Ren obeys eagerly, drawing up his knees and presenting himself to Hux. Hux moves closer to position himself, settling Ren’s legs over his shoulders; Ren feels a twinge of excitement, knowing full well what’s to come. “Are you ready?”

_“Yes.”_

“Lovely boy, of course you are.”  Hux takes himself in hand and guides himself inside of Ren.

Positioned as he is, Hux hits that sweetest spot inside of Ren right away, just as intended. Ren cries out at once, arching his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes. _“There,”_ he gasps. _“Oh,_ yes.”

His cock is heavy against his stomach, and he reaches down, greedy, to stroke it as Hux draws himself out and then thrusts back in again, deliberate and slow. “Is that good?” Hux asks him. “Is that how you like it, how you wanted it? Is this how you fucked yourself, thinking of me?”

Ren can only nod, a wordless moan escaping his lips as Hux fucks into him again, going deeper still. “Don’t leave me again,” he begs him, his hand moving erratically on his cock, made clumsy with lust. “Don’t ever leave me. I need you with me, I need you always…oh, Hux, _please…”_

“Good boy,” Hux breathes, and Ren’s blood warms with the familiar words, that curl of his lips. “Good boy, my sweet boy. Oh, you feel so good for me — and no one else, Ren, isn’t that right? No one else will ever have you. You’re mine, all mine.” Hux’s face and chest are flushed, his breathing shallow.

“And no one else’s, ever again.” Ren feels dizzy, heady with pleasure; they have been apart for too long; _and never again, he’ll never leave me again, and I will never leave him. I can’t, I can’t, I am his, only his._ The whine building in his throat turns to a drawn-out, open moan as Hux places his hand over Ren’s on his cock, and joins him in stroking it, firm. “I’m close,” Ren gasps, “so close — want to come for you, please, Hux —”

But: “Wait,” Hux commands him. “Not yet.” He smirks, taking his hand from Ren’s cock and pulling Ren’s off too.

Ren, hovering on the edge but now bereft, keens in protest. _“Please,_ Hux!” he begs him, half-delirious.

“No.” Hux kisses him, impish, tonguing deep into his mouth, biting into his lower lip and sucking on the tip of his tongue — and all the while canting his hips, torturously, into Ren’s, hitting that spot over and over and over again, until Ren is trembling, his cock streaming thin fluid onto his heaving stomach.

“Please,” he begs again, his hands fisting tightly in the sheets. He can feel himself about to lose control, his orgasm building to a point of no return — and so, finally, desperately, he reaches to the Force, as he hasn’t in so long, to hold it back. He concentrates hard, harder, and succeeds, feeling the tide recede as if dammed, however briefly…but he still cannot hold back his imploring moan, high and pained. _“Please!”_

“No.” Hux fucks into him, hard, and Ren cries out. The emperor touches the pad of his thumb to the head of Ren’s cock, circling the slit with the lightest of touches, and Ren writhes, moaning, desperate, unsure how much longer he’ll be able to hold on, even with the help of his powers —

“Do you want me to come inside you?” Hux demands. “Tell me. Tell me you want it, you perfect whore, you gorgeous brute.”

 _“Yes,”_ Ren gasps. “Inside me — yes, Hux, please —”

“Come for me, first,” Hux orders; and finally Ren lets go.

He comes shouting, crying Hux’s name, his cock pulsing thick spend onto his stomach and chest. His body shakes, trembles, as his orgasm tears through him, made more powerful still for having been denied; and as his body tenses around Hux, the emperor comes too, his mouth open in a silent exhalation as he spends himself inside of Ren. The shocks of pleasure roll on and on and on, Ren’s body arching to meet Hux’s, until finally they are spent and they can breathe again.

Slowly, Ren’s heart rate returns to normal, his breathing raspy. The emperor leans his face into Ren’s neck and murmurs, his tongue darting out to taste Ren’s sweat, “I missed you.”

He pulls out of Ren, tugging a gasp from him as he does, and stretches luxuriously. Ren watches him, half-dazed still, and nearly feels aroused again at the sight of him.

“Come here,” Ren protests, as Hux makes to get up from bed and go to the refresher: Ren knows he hates to linger without cleaning himself first.

But he looks back over his shoulder, sees Ren’s hand outstretched to him, and he smiles. “All right,” he agrees readily, and comes back over to Ren. Ignoring the mess on Ren’s stomach, he climbs into Ren’s arms when he opens them for him, their legs tangling together. His pale skin is warm, as if lit from within; he exhales a soft, contented sigh as he nestles into Ren’s embrace and Ren brushes a kiss to his brilliant hair.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Hux says, muffled, into Ren’s chest. He presses a kiss to the skin there. “All I’ll ever need.”

Ren closes his eyes. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he feels the ache of his powers returning to him, after having been suppressed for so long. He understands that, surely, now, Rey and his mother will be frantic to contact him; he resigns himself to putting them off with excuses, as he has become so used to doing. To explain his self-imposed absence, he will make up some tale of Hux growing suspicious — perhaps another Force-user at court —  _something, anything. But it doesn’t matter, not now. All that matters is him._

“I love you,” Ren tells Hux, his arms coming up to enfold him closely.

Hux smiles against his skin: Ren can feel it. “And I love you.” He sighs, shifts closer in his arms. “Sleep now, my Ren. I’m here. We shall never be parted again.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks ever so much to [Gefionne](http://gefionne.tumblr.com) for surprising us with [this lovely commission](http://www.yahoo.com) from [curlygingerbird](http://curlygingerbird.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's already in the warnings, but please be aware that this chapter contains major character death.

*

The next morning, they are breakfasting together in the emperor’s rooms when there is a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Hux calls, spearing a berry on the end of his knife and popping it in his mouth. Ren, across the table from him, reaches for the pot of chocolate and pours another mug. Hux is in high spirits today, Ren feeling lazy and satisfied; they spent the morning in bed, emerging only recently to refresh themselves before Hux’s first day back begins.

The door opens and Captain Phasma enters, bowing low. “Majesty,” she says, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered (although she still carries an air of authority, of menace. A sword within its sheath is still a sword.)

“What is it?” Hux asks her, looking up from his meal. There is a light, almost playful irritation in his voice.

Phasma hesitates. This is unlike her. It’s here that Ren begins to grow wary. “Sir, I have news for you.” She says no more, and her eyes flick to Ren. She shifts.

Hux notices. He waves a hand. “Speak freely, Captain; Ren is at least as trustworthy as I am,” he jests. He lays a possessive hand on Ren’s across the table, and strokes his thumb over it as he beseeches her again, “Tell me. What is it?”

Phasma hesitates still. Annoyance crosses Hux’s face, and then finally she speaks, albeit reluctantly:

“There are visitors from Naboo awaiting you in the audience chamber.”

Ren tenses. Hux’s eyebrows arch. “Visitors? But we were not expecting a Nabooian envoy,” he says, frowning.

“Yes, sir,” Phasma nods. “I know. They arrived unannounced and have fervently requested an audience,” she informs him. “They claim the Queen herself has sent them.”

“An official delegation?” Hux’s frown deepens. He takes his hand from Ren’s and reaches for his napkin, wipes his mouth. Ren remains immobile, beginning to sweat.

“No, sir,” Phasma answers. “If I may continue to speak freely” — and Hux nods, impatient — “they look like nothing more than a trio of smugglers — two men and a girl; but they say Leia Organa has asked them to pay Your Majesty a visit.”

Ren’s blood runs cold. He feels his heart begin to pound. _Two men and a girl. It can’t be._

“Well! A surprise visit from Nabooian smugglers. Quite the after-breakfast treat, isn’t this, Ren?” Hux asks idly, and Ren can only nod, mute, and force a smile. Hux rises. “Very well, then. Tell them I will receive them at once.”

He turns to the droid in the corner of the room — “Clear this up, won’t you?” he orders, waving a hand at the breakfast table — and then turns back to Ren, a pouting smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry to disturb our morning like this,” he tells him, and his voice is lower, softer now, adopting the cadences Ren knows are reserved for him. Ren can feel Phasma’s eyes on his back, boring into him. “But this audience should only take a moment, and then I’ll be back. Why don’t you go freshen up and wait for me?” he asks pointedly, giving a deliberate smile.

Ren ignores the instinctive heat curling even now in his belly, and shakes his head. “Might I come with you?” he asks, feeling his voice tremble. He makes himself smile again, tries to look coquettish and naïve. “The envoys are from my home planet, after all. I haven’t seen a Naboo in so long, I’ve nearly forgotten what they look like,” he says, forcing himself to flirt, to charm Hux into giving him his way as he always does — for if these “envoys” are in fact who he thinks they are, then everything is about to change, and Ren wants to be ready.

Hux frowns for a moment, that familiar crease appearing between his brows. Ren waits, both desperately hoping and fearing that he will say yes.

And finally, he does. “Very well,” Hux concedes. “Yes, you may accompany me.” He gives a sharp-edged smile. “It will be good for them to see you, don’t you think? A pretty reminder of where they stand in the galaxy,” he says, warming fully to the idea. He nods. “Come along, then. It won’t do to keep them waiting any longer.”

And so Ren stands, and he and Phasma fall in line (according to rank, of course) behind their emperor, and they all proceed into the throne room. Hux takes his place on his throne, Ren on the dais at his feet; and Phasma stands to the side, one hand poised on the blaster at her hip and her steely gaze still fixed on Ren. Ren is beginning to feel sick to his stomach.

“The visitors from Naboo,” a herald announces, and the doors between the waiting room and the throne room are thrown open. And there, in pilots’ jumpsuits, in the flesh, stand Rey, Poe, and Finn.

Ren’s stomach roils. _This can’t be possible, they can’t be here —_ but it is, and they are, and now they are striding up the gallery, Rey in front, flanked by her loyal lovers. The princess takes long, confident strides in her sturdy flight-boots; her helmet is held under her arm, strands of her brown hair escaping from their practical bun. Ren stares at her, and he knows he is in danger, and he has never been so homesick in his life.

“Your Majesty,” Rey says when they reach the emperor’s throne. She bows low in front of him, her form perfect and assured; Poe and Finn follow suit, although without quite the same grace. The princess straightens up, her brown eyes flashing and sure. “I humbly present myself and my companions to Your Imperial Highness,” she continues, perfectly cool. “My name is Kira, and these are my shipmates. We have been sent by Her Majesty Queen Leia Amidala of Naboo.”

At the sound of Rey’s false name Ren feels sicker still. In their childhood games of make-believe, they’d invented new identities for themselves, far from the restrictive royal life they knew. Rey’s preferred character had always been a girl named Kira, a scavenger on the distant desert planet Jakku; and as for Ren, he’d been a smuggler like his father. 

“Why have you come?” Hux asks without preamble. There is genuine curiosity in his voice. “The Queen of Naboo did not inform me that she intended to send an envoy, or for what reason.”

“Ours is rather an unplanned visit.” It’s Poe who speaks up now, his husky voice conveying his usual relaxed charm and self-possession. “We were in the system on a routine trading flight when Her Majesty commed us directly, requesting that we drop in and seek an audience with Your Highness.” He gives an easy smile.

Hux seems to find nothing wrong with Poe’s declaration, but Ren knows for certain that nothing here is as it seems. Rey still has not looked at him.

“And for what reason did she say?” Hux continues his questioning.

“She wanted to know how her subject was faring in your court.” Poe nods to Ren, glancing at him and then quickly averting his gaze. Ren flushes with shame.

“Did she!” Hux sounds amused. “And does the Queen of Naboo take such a _personal_ interest in the lives of _all_ her subjects living abroad?”

He gives a high, brief laugh, and hearing it, a shiver runs down Ren’s spine. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, or, perhaps, cease to beat entirely. He clenches his fists tight, hidden in the folds of his robe, and waits for this torture to end — in one way or another.

 “No, sir.” It’s Rey who speaks now, as regal and composed as Ren has ever seen her: so unlike the bright-eyed, adventurous girl whom he knows from home. She is all princess now, as she was born to be. Now, finally, her eyes flick to Ren as she says, “It is due to his…particular position in your court that Her Majesty wishes to inquire after the welfare of her subject.”

There is carefully-concealed disgust in her voice. She won’t say his name.

“I see,” Hux says. “A peculiar request, certainly, but — well! What’s the harm in indulging the old woman?” he asks carelessly. “One can hardly blame her for succumbing to…eccentricities, after the unfortunate incident of her husband last year.”

At these words, a shocking white hatred sears through Ren’s chest. He sees Rey’s eyes narrow, Finn’s hands clench at his sides; Poe’s jaw is set hard —  _and they don’t even know._

“If she wishes for a report on the health and happiness of my _whore,”_ Hux concludes with a cruel little smile, “then I don’t see the harm in giving her one.”

Ren flinches. Rey sees. Her eyes go to him again, and there is something like pity in them now. She squares her shoulders. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says graciously to Hux.

“In fact, I will do better than give her a mere _report,”_ Hux continues as if he had not heard her. He’s thinking; his thumb comes up to stroke over his lips. “Yes. Instead of sending you off with some pretty words and assurances, why don’t you stay the night here? That way you may observe my lovely Ren for yourselves, and form your own opinions to take home to your queen.” His smile is poison.

Rey, Poe and Finn exchange a glance. They had not expected this. It seems too good to be true, or at least it does to Ren; but there is no way they can refuse an invitation from the emperor himself. He has offered them a choice and yet no choice at all. Hux has always been good at this.

It’s Finn who finally answers him, speaking up for the first time. “We would be honoured,” he says humbly.

“Good!” Hux says, apparently delighted. “A surprise visit from Naboo. Very good indeed.” He turns to Ren, seated on the stairs at his feet. “Ren,” he requests, “would you be so kind as to show your countrymen to the guest wing of the palace? They can see for themselves how well you have adapted to life in our fine court.”

Ren swallows, feeling lead in his throat. “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

Hux’s smile is like silk. “Good boy. Come here.” He beckons Ren to rise and kiss him before he leaves: Ren does so numbly, and feels the eyes of all three of his friends boring into his back as his and Hux’s lips meet.

“You are dismissed,” Hux tells the ‘envoys.’

Ren glances at him, and then he walks as if in a trance down the length of the gallery, indicating that Rey, Finn, and Poe should follow.

“This way, please,” he hears himself say. “I am sure you will be very happy with the palace’s guest suites,” he continues for Hux and Phasma’s benefit, knowing that his words will echo until they are far, far down the hall. “Our gracious emperor provides nothing but the finest accommodations for all visiting dignitaries, whether announced or otherwise…” He forces a saccharine smile.

“We are honoured to be offered accommodations at all,” Rey replies in the same tone of forced ease. She, too, raises her voice slightly to ensure her courteous words reach the emperor’s ears. “His Majesty is far too kind.”

They disappear down a corridor, following Ren, and the echo of their voices falls silent at last.

In the throne room, Phasma turns to her emperor: “Sir, might I be dismissed? I must attend to my troops.”

The surprise visit has thrown off everyone’s routines; her impatience is understandable. Hux nods. “Yes, go, Captain, and call the first _scheduled_ envoys in on your way out, won’t you?” he jests.

She bows quickly. “Yes, my lord.”

She leaves the throne room in a hurry, throwing open the door and barking sharply at the first of the waiting dignitaries that the emperor is ready to see them. Two of the Bodyguard escort them in, taking over for their captain; Phasma nods in gratitude to them, and then she takes off down the corridor to the guest suites.

*

These suites are in the east wing of the palace, far opposite Hux’s personal quarters. This is a security feature put in place by Hux’s father, ensuring that any ill-intentioned visitors would have to traverse the enormous palace in its entirety — guaranteed to encounter people, guards, along the way — should they intend to reach the emperor and do him harm.

But Phasma is beginning to think that the real threat to her emperor’s life has been in the west wing all along: has been, in fact, in Hux’s very bed, and at his request, no less.

She reaches the first of the guest suites and snaps at a maintenance droid, “Where did they go?”

The droid whirs nervously and indicates that Ren and his guests have gone into the sitting-room; and indeed, creeping closer to the door, Phasma can hear hushed voices from inside. Moving as quietly as she can in her heavy leather boots, she opens the door a crack.

The sitting-room is smaller than those elsewhere in the palace — the emperor’s private rooms, the parlours where dignitaries are entertained — but decorated as finely, cleaned as well, and kept as orderly as the rest of the palace, to make a good impression on foreign guests. The four Naboo sit in a huddle of chairs near the picture window on the back wall: too far away for them to have heard Phasma opening the door; but she can still hear everything that they say.

From the inside pocket of her uniform jacket, she takes out a small datapad. She swipes it open and selects the audio-recording function. She turns it on.

“Why have you come?” Ren asks of the three strangers, his voice low and urgent. His face is drawn, he looks anxious, and the three others have the same grim look on their faces. This, Phasma can tell at once, is no ordinary meeting of strangers: these four have more in common than a home-world. They have met before.

“For you,” the girl replies. “Ben, what’s happened? Why did you cease communications?”

 _Ben._ The wrong name registers like a warning bell in Phasma’s head. It seems to startle Ren too: he winces, something flashing across his face — but he still responds to it. He swallows. “I had to,” he mutters in reply, sounding guilty. “You don’t understand.”

 _What communications?_ Phasma wonders. She has been monitoring Ren’s HoloNet access and activity from the very beginning. He hardly uses his datapad; there has been no evidence of off- or on-planet communications with anyone, excepting Hux while he was away this past fortnight. _How could he have gotten around the network restrictions, and hidden his doings from me?_

 _“You_ don’t understand either,” the girl retorts at once, flaring up. “Ben, your mother has been in torment! You closed off your mind to all of us. We had no way of knowing whether you were alive or not, whether you’d been found out — and we had _nothing,_ no new information for weeks, for _months!_ And then we saw that he’d left, that you were alone — we were sure now you’d be in touch — but still nothing. For all we knew, you’d been thrown in prison for espionage and the New Empire was days away from launching an attack on our system. We _needed you,_ Ben!”

 _His mother. And he “closed off his mind…”_   Slowly, the pieces begin to come together in Phasma’s head. _Naboo. Their princess is a pilot, and about this girl’s age…and she and her cousin, the crown prince, were rumoured to be Force-sensitive, just like their parents._ Phasma’s mind snags on that, on the prince. His name, she remembers now, is Kylo _…but then, that is only his regal name._

Phasma remembers: _The boy was christened Ben._

This changes everything.

“I’m sorry!” Ren —  _no, he is Kylo, Prince of Naboo, a spy and a traitor! —_ lashes out, looking desperately between the three others. “You don’t know what it’s been like, here. You don’t know what Hux wants, what he needs of me —”

“He’s _Hux,_ now?” One of the men speaks up: the older, his handsome face disapproving. “You’re talking as if you knew him.”

“I do know him!” Ren insists, his face darkening. “At my mother’s _orders,_ at the Resistance’s command — for their sake — I’ve come to know him, and he to know me. He _trusts me,_ I swear to you he does!”

“Then why have you not given us more information?” the girl — his cousin, then, the Princess Rey — fires back at him. “If you know so much about _Hux,_ surely you know about his weapons, too, his plans to wage war against us — and don’t deny that those are his intentions, Ben. We may not be at his side, in his _bed,_ but we’re not blind. He’s a _threat!”_

“He needs me,” Ren repeats, his eyes flashing. “He needs me with him all the time; I don’t have time to be alone and speak with you. I _would_ have told you more, I’d have told you everything I know, but there has not been time, he wants me with him always —”

“So tell us now,” the older man interjects again, folding his arms over his chest.

“We’ll listen,” the younger man adds, his dark eyes flicking between his companions and Ren.

“Tell us everything, Ben,” the princess orders him. “We’re here now. Tell us what you know, and then we’ll go back to your mother, assure her that her son is still _alive_ , and leave you to your emperor.” There is disgust in her voice, a bitter disappointment.

Ren looks at her, and his dark eyes plead. “I can’t,” he says simply. “I can’t tell you any more.”

The girl makes to rise, as if to strike him; at once the dark-skinned man at her side has jumped up, laid a hand on her arm to stop her. They exchange a look, and reluctantly the girl sits back down, her jaw clenched.

“Ben,” she repeats, her voice thrumming with repressed rage, _“please._ Your mother needs this information. We’re powerless without you; we have no one else this close to the emperor. We need to know what he’s planning, and you’re the only one who can tell us. I know you know, Ben. _Please.”_

There is a long moment of silence. The sound-waves appearing on the screen of Phasma’s datapad drop to a flatline for seconds. She grows impatient, willing the harlot-prince to speak, to further expose his own deception and give her what she needs for Hux to hear.

And — so graciously — he does.

“The superweapon will be fired for the first time on the Hosnian system, within two standard months,” Ren says, deflated, defeated. “Hux means to test its power there, as a show of intimidation against the Republic. His ultimate goal is to force my mother and all the other Republic rulers to hand over their dominions to the Empire.” He takes a breath. “He wants…he intends to rule the galaxy.”

He hangs his head, looking about to cry. But the others are jubilant: the younger man laughs aloud, and his older companion gives a long exhale. Even the princess cracks half a smile.

“Perfect,” she says. “Your mother has been planning for something like this, thanks to what you told us before. Two standard months — that’s more time than we’d expected. All she’ll need to do now is mobilise her troops to the Unknown Regions and storm the planet before they attack. The Empire will never see it coming. They’ll never succeed in this.”

Impetuous, she stands, and goes to Ren’s side, drops a kiss on his bowed head: _“Thank you,_ Ben.” He shrinks back from her touch, plainly miserable.

Phasma steps back from the threshold, further out of sight. She is stunned —  _this is worse treachery even than I had imagined —_ but alight with determination. She’ll linger here a little longer, see if the whore won’t dig his own grave a little deeper; and then she’ll bring this recording to Hux, and present the slut’s crimes for him to hear. Once he does, Phasma knows he will get rid of him, and his companions too; and then they will accelerate preparations for the attack on the Hosnian system, and Leia Amidala’s Resistance will bow before the Empire as Hux steps forth to assume rightful control of the galaxy. _And all thanks to this foolish whore._

The man she once knew as Ren is staring straight ahead, his head held adroit and high and his hands sitting limp in his lap. His eyes look blank, hopeless, as if he knew he had just sealed his own fate. His cousin and her companions are oblivious, talking fast in low voices between themselves, no doubt making plans to contact their queen and tell her everything. The princess paces and gestures with her hands, her face set, her eyes lit-up with victory; the two men’s gazes don’t leave her face.

Phasma decides that she has heard enough. She thinks, too, that she will let them believe they are safe for a little while longer: she will let them stay the night in peace, secure in their plotting, and then depart for their home-world without fuss in the morning. It will not do to harm _both_ the heirs to the Nabooian throne, and the girl’s lovers too — Hux may have need of all of them when he annexes their system, if for no other reason than to use them to secure their people’s support.

Ren, though, will of course still be eliminated. _Such a traitor cannot go unpunished._

 _But not yet._ Phasma steps back into the hall, the voice recording saved and her datapad tucked back into her breast pocket. She closes the door to the guest suite softly, and leaves unnoticed as she’d come.

*

Once Rey, Poe, and Finn have finished questioning him (and embracing him, all three of them at least once, and Rey’s hand stroking through his hair, resting on his cheek as if she cannot believe he is still real, making Ren’s chest grow tighter and tighter with each touch), Ren leaves them in their suite and near-races back across the palace. He demands breathlessly of a household guard where he might find the emperor, and receives the concerned reply that Hux is in a meeting with the senator from Xodi, and is Master Ren quite well?

“Tell him to come see me,” Ren blurts out desperately. The guard’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline: not even Ren can order the emperor around, much less through his own servants. “Please,” Ren begs, when the guard gives no response. “I am — I am not well. I would see him. _Please.”_

The guard nods, uncertain but seeming to take pity, and Ren leaves him, stumbling as if dazed into Hux’s quarters to await him. (The scanner knows his print as well as Hux’s, by now.) He climbs into the emperor’s bed and wraps all the covers and furs around his trembling shoulders: he is shivering, he realises, violently and uncontrollably. He feels sick with what he has done.

He should, he knows, be proud: be happy. He has successfully completed his mission, at long last — he has given the Resistance everything they need to know about the Starkiller project, and if, as Rey says, they have been planning for this, they will be able to defeat the New Imperial fleet and bring peace to the galaxy once and for all, just as Leia has always wanted.

He has secured his mother’s victory; he has avenged his father’s death.

But he has betrayed the man he loves.

Ren buries his face in the sheets, the sheets that smell of Hux’s hair and his own sweat, the lingering scent of the two of them together. He falls into a shallow, troubled sleep, unable to stay awake any longer, as if his own guilt were dragging him under.

*

Hux finds him there an hour later, after his meeting has concluded and the guard Ren accosted has tentatively informed him that Ren would like to see him at once. “He didn’t look well,” the solider had added, and Hux had strode to his quarters at once. Now he unlocks the door swiftly and calls his name as he enters:

“Ren?”

Ren jolts awake and struggles to sitting. “Hux,” he mumbles, disoriented.

At once the emperor sits down on the bed at his side, and picks up Ren’s hand to press it to his lips, the very picture of concern. “What ails you, my love?” he asks, his brow furrowing in worry. “Are you ill again?”

Ren shakes his head, although his eyes are bleary with sleep and shed tears, and his face is ghostly pale. “No, my lord, I’m fine — I’m fine,” he answers hoarsely. “Just — just tired.”

“You frightened me,” Hux chides him gently. “I would have come sooner if I had known. What do you need, sweet thing?”

“Nothing,” Ren insists, growing more awake, now, taking his hand from Hux’s and pushing his tangled hair back from his face. “I swear it, my lord, I am only tired. It was the — the shock of seeing my countrymen, I think; it has been so long…”

“You’re homesick,” Hux fills in, nodding understandingly. “Of course you are; you’ve been here for months now, it’s no wonder it was so strange to see your own people again.” A thought crosses his mind: “But you didn’t know them, did you? They are pilots in the royal fleet; you wouldn’t —”

“No, my lord,” Ren hurries to assure him, his heart jumping into his throat. “Of course not. They are strangers to me, but — but I almost felt like I knew them, we share a home-world; I…I was overcome.” He stops talking and smiles weakly up at Hux. “I am better now, to see you,” he offers, and gets a smile from Hux in return, a chaste kiss pressed to his cheek.

“Good,” Hux says decisively. He looks down at the comlink on his wrist to check the time, and then looks back up at Ren with a question in his eyes. “I have a lunch appointment with the ambassadress from Ardos, but that can always be rescheduled…”

“Stay,” Ren says. “Please.”

Hux smiles. “All right.” He raises the comm to his lips, presses a button and speaks into it, calm and cool as always, telling his chief of staff to please pass on his apologies to the Ardosi party, but something has come up and he must needs postpone their meeting. When he has finished with that, he shucks his uniform coat and lays it over the armchair, and then climbs into bed next to Ren.

Ren exhales, and curls gratefully into him, Hux’s arms coming up to circle round him and hold him close. He lifts his face to be kissed, and the emperor obliges, his mouth cool and soft as always. Ren twines his legs between Hux’s and kisses him deeper; Hux strokes his fingers through Ren’s long hair, and Ren feels himself relaxing, his previous anguish melting away. Regardless of what may come of this, of his unwilling treason — to either side, to both — for the moment he is safe; he is where he needs to be.

Their kisses grow more heated, but are soft, careful still. Soon enough Hux reaches down to take Ren in his hand, and Ren arches into his touch, closing his eyes and breathing Hux’s name as the emperor brings him to his pleasure. Ren makes to return the favour as soon as his breathing has slowed, but Hux refuses him gently.

“Later, Ren; there will be time for that later. For now,” he says, kissing Ren’s hair, “rest.”

The big bed dips and settles again as Hux gets up, clasping Ren’s hand one last time. As Ren watches through half-lidded eyes, he strips off his creased and bed-warmed clothing, steps into a fresh, identical uniform, and goes into the refresher to fix his hair. When he comes out he brings Ren a damp cloth to clean himself with, and then he kisses his hand once again, and tells him, “I’ll be back tonight. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Ren murmurs.

The door shuts behind him, the scanner sealing it securely, sequestering Ren from the rest of the palace: from the court, and its unexpected guests, and anything that might be coming next. For now, Ren is alone, and tenuously safe; _for now, I am still loved._

He does not want to think about what tonight — or tomorrow, or the next day, the forthcoming weeks — might bring. War, he suspects: a war that he has caused; or worse, his going home, returning to Naboo undercover or in disgrace. He does not know how they would manage it — staging an accident for Ren here, smuggling him, Kylo, back home aboard Rey’s ship when they leave? — but the very thought of leaving the court, of leaving Hux, makes him shudder. He thinks again of Rey’s touch on his face, and shakes off the guilt and sadness the memory brings.

_The lines have been drawn. I have chosen him._

He cleans the cooling mess off his skin, and he falls asleep again. He dreams of home, and too of Hux: for they have become one and the same.

*

Hux did return that night, and Ren woke to his kiss; he stirred, and made to rise, but Hux bid him stay in bed, and soon joined him there. He took his pleasure quickly, gently, and then they fell asleep entwined.

It is morning, now, and the emperor is awake before the sun, as is his custom. Hux leaves Ren deep in slumber and goes to wash and dress for the day. He combs pomade through his hair, shaves his face and scents his skin; he steps into his crisp uniform and tugs on his boots with care. With a last glance at Ren he leaves the bedroom for his dining-quarters, to breakfast before his work begins.

There is a parlour between his bedchamber and the dining-room. This parlour is not empty. His Captain of the Bodyguard rises from a settee as soon as she hears his brisk tread on the stone floor. “Sir,” Phasma says immediately.

Hux starts when he sees her. “Captain,” he replies, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Sir, I have something you need to hear. At once.” Phasma’s blue eyes are grave, her tone solemn.

Hux’s frown deepens. “By all the stars, Phasma, what is it? Come,” he says, gesturing, “tell me over breakfast. I have business to attend to and cannot be delayed.”

All the same, he makes her wait. She waits until his breakfast has been served — eggs and meats and fruits and bread — and she takes a small plate for herself when he bids her, though she does not touch a morsel. She waits until his caf has been poured by an attendant droid, and she waits until he has taken his first sip and first bite; waits until finally he says, “Now tell me.”

“The envoys from Naboo have gone,” she begins.

“I know,” Hux interjects. “They were scheduled to leave at dawn; I presume they have done so by now?” He glances out the window, where the weak sun is rising through the damp heavy clouds.

Phasma nods. “I came here from having seen them off.”

The girl, the princess, had curtsied prettily to her on the tarmac, flight-suit and helmet on; the other two had bowed, and wished her well. Phasma had watched them as they climbed into their X-wings and took off — made sure they left the atmosphere, making haste to bring their ill-gotten news back to their queen — and then she had come directly to the emperor’s rooms.

“Yes?” Hux is impatient. “What is your point, Captain?”

Phasma takes a breath. “I ask you to forgive me, sir,” she says, bowing her head. “All I did, I did for you and your safety.”

Hux sets down his knife and stares at her. _“Stars,_ Phasma, what have you _done?_ Don’t be obtuse, Captain, _tell me,_ and be quick about it.”

“Yesterday I followed the envoys and Master Ren to the guest suite,” Phasma tells him clearly, looking up at him. “I spied on them, my lord.”

Hux frowns again. “And?”

“I…overheard some things that I thought you should hear.” Phasma takes out her datapad and opens the sound file. She lays it on the table in front of Hux, humbly, and presses play.

Ren’s recorded voice fills the room, loud and agitated — “ _Why have you come?”_ Phasma hears him ask, again.

Hux is visibly surprised to hear him; he seems about to speak, but Phasma holds up a hand, hoping that he will not be angered by her insolence. “Please, sir,” she urges him, “listen.”

 _“For you,”_ says the princess. _“Ben, what’s happened?”_

At _Ben,_ a ripple of — something — crosses Hux’s features, His face darkens, and he turns to Phasma: “What is this?” he hisses. “If this is some trick, Captain —”

“It is no trick,” she pleads with him. _“Listen,_ my lord, I beg you.”

On the recording, Ren makes his poor excuses, and the princess grows angry: _Your mother,_ she says, and _We needed you._ Hux’s face goes still, and stiller.

 _You talk as if you knew him,_ says one of the pilots.

 _I do know him!_ Ren protests, his voice growing louder, angrier still, like a defiant child. _At my mother’s orders, at the Resistance’s command —_

It is at this that Hux breaks, the mask of his features crumbling. He has been holding a spoon: it tumbles now from his fingers, hitting his plate with a clatter. He turns to Phasma. “No,” he says, his voice low, rough. “No. This cannot be.”

Phasma stops the recording: Hux has heard enough. She looks at him, and shakes her head sadly. “It is, my lord. You heard him. He has been a spy from the beginning.”

Hux stands up slowly. “Treason,” he says. His face is pale. He grips the back of his chair to steady himself, and when he speaks, his voice is bleak and empty. “It is treason. He must — he must die.”

 “Where is he, my lord?” Phasma asks. “What would you have me do?” There is a cruel triumph mounting in her chest, a vicious sense that she has won; her suspicions, vague as they were, have been proven, and she has kept her emperor safe, as she has sworn, body and soul, to do.

“I left him sleeping,” Hux replies as if numb. “In my bedchamber.” He hesitates a moment, and then steels himself. “Call in my guards.”

Phasma is always well-prepared. She has brought the Bodyguard with her: they wait outside the doors to Hux’s apartments. She taps her comlink and summons her soldiers. They come quietly.

Phasma leads them to the imperial bedroom; but then she bids them stay back. She opens the doors.

Ren stirs at the noise, and makes to sit up: “Hux?” he murmurs drowsily, rubbing his eyes in the sudden light.

“Rise, traitor,” Phasma says coldly, her voice like a whip-crack. “Rise and face your deception. Your gambit is up.”

The whore’s eyes widen; he is all at once awake. He scrambles to pull the sheets around himself, to cover his nakedness: he is ashamed. “Hux,” he repeats defiantly, but his voice catches. “Where is he?”

Phasma stalks to the side of the bed and yanks him from under the blankets and furs. A fierce elation courses through her, that she should be the architect of his vicissitudes. “Cover yourself,” she orders him as he stumbles to his feet. “You are under arrest, Prince Kylo Amidala of Naboo, for the crimes of espionage and treason.”

At the sound of his old name, Ren falters. He stands trembling, the sheets wrapped haphazard around his naked form, and he looks dizzy, like to faint. “No,” he whispers. “No. I never meant to —  _Please.”_

Phasma seizes him roughly. “Your whore’s pleas are nothing to me. You have deceived the emperor and conspired against him. For this you shall die.”

Ren’s bulk is such that Phasma and another of the Bodyguard must drag him together from the room, the sheet tied sloppily around his waist, his bare feet stumbling uselessly over the rugs and stone. Hux is still standing at the breakfast table, motionless, apparently not having moved since Phasma left him; his hand is still poised, white-knuckled, on his chair. When they come from the bedroom — a phalanx of guards preceded by the triumphant Phasma and her helper, a distraught Ren captive between them — Hux swallows hard and forces himself to look at them.

“Here he is, my lord,” Phasma says. “What would you have us do?”

“Hux.” Ren speaks up before he can answer. His voice is raw, choked with tears. His face is wet: he looks at Hux, beseeching. _“Hux._ Please, I never meant to — I stopped telling them things months ago. I am loyal to you, only to you,” he promises, a wretched, terrible pain in his voice. _“Please,_ my lord — they are nothing to me, the Resistance, my family! I only serve you,” he says, breathing in shallow, wracked gulps. “I only want you.”

 “Silence, _slut,”_   Phasma hisses. She turns back to her master. “We can dispose of him at once, if you wish it.”

“No.” Hux speaks.

“No?” Phasma repeats, incredulous. “But my lord —”

“He will still die,” Hux cuts her off. Ren gives a small cry: Hux flinches. “But not yet,” the emperor finishes. A spasm, almost of pain, crosses his face. “Not yet,” he repeats, strangled. He swallows. “Take him away. Hold him somewhere, and keep him watched.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hux,” Ren cries out again. Tears stream down his face, and he wrests one arm from the guard’s grip to reach for Hux, clutch desperately at the air. “My lord. Please. Please, I beg your mercy, let me explain —”

“I have heard the evidence,” Hux cuts him off. “You are guilty.”

Ren’s face contorts in anguish. “But Hux, please — I love you — oh, my lord, _I love you,_ _please —”_

Hux sways on his feet. His grip on the chair-back grows tighter. And then his face hardens. “Take him out of my sight,” he orders, his voice cold.

Phasma obeys. She and her guards march him out of the suite, Ren’s frantic cries of Hux’s name echoing behind them.

The emperor is left alone. Only now does he crumple like a marionette with cut strings, and let his tears overtake him.

*

Ren drops to the ground where Phasma and her men leave him, in a cell somewhere underground, Force-resistant stun cuffs on his wrists and his body too weak to hold himself up. The clang of the closing door echoes through the damp, dark room. Ren’s shoulders quake from the force of his anguish, tears scorching trails across the clammy skin of his face.

The sheet around his waist — now grey, wet — is thin and useless against the draft that slips in under the door, icy fingers sliding into the room to rip at Ren’s exposed skin. He thinks, fleetingly, of pulling the edges closer around himself to stave off the chill that he feels settling in the joints of his body, hiding amid the very fibres of his muscles, but he cannot muster the strength.

His hands twitch, restless, frozen, grasping at nothing but air. His body trembles, an earthquake barely contained inside one man.

_Death is coming._

Ren shakes, waiting — the minutes drag, the world sways, tears pour from his eyes.

He is dying. He is alone.

He gasps for breath, panicked, numb, empty; a biting sort of suffering twists deep within his gut.

_Death is coming._

But first sleep claims him, tearing him from the grey of his surroundings to a world of flaming red hair and bleeding red bullet wounds and floating red leaves. When he wakes, the red that slips down his palms and drips from his fingernails leaves him crying.

*

He huddles against the wall, shivering, wrapped tightly in the memory of his final morning with Hux, nose pressed against the fabric of the sheet, deep shaking breaths pulling the remaining scent into his lungs.

He waits.

*

The food is old, stale — sawdust bread and muddy tea and a broken porcelain plate. It sits upon the floor, untouched. Then it sits in his stomach, leaden. Now it sits upon the floor again, Ren heaving above it, body roiling, eyes burning, sobs shuddering.

He waits.

*

His knuckles bleed — angry and inflamed, so cold they are numb. He smashes them against the ground with each beat of his heart — breaking, breaking, broken — seconds slipping by without content, without meaning. He is nothing, now. He is no one.

He waits.

*

He is sleeping (or what passes for sleep in this limbo where he finds himself; no human contact, no Force, no meaning). The sound comes first, steady, not unlike his dream, and he ignores it. They are coming.

_Death is coming._

He waits.

*

He is in the courtyard. It is empty but for Phasma, standing near the north wall, blaster by her side. They have dressed him in sunset orange and deep purple and vibrant red, Nabooian colours: the most extravagant of costumes, a malicious ode to the royal concubines of Naboo’s past. They have made-up his face in the traditional style. His cheeks are white, his lips marked red as heart’s blood.

Ren feels as though he should be insulted (knows that he will be mocked when this is all over), but all he can manage is a sense of relief, disgusting as it is, as he thinks of how he will die with a piece of home wrapped around him. Warm comfort after so much sorrow.

Movement on the upper balcony catches Ren’s attention. It hangs over the plaza, built for the spectacle of death, a row of polished chairs lined-up towering and cold. And Hux is there, in the middle seat, stiff-backed and pale, red hair and grey clothes and black gloves in perfect condition. Ren tries to catch his eyes, tries to see if this has affected him as it has ruined Ren, but the distance between them is too great.

It is the custom, Ren knows (had learned from Ykara after the hunt, the tiny dead bird ever in his thoughts), that in the case of an execution, Hux should be the one to fire the blaster. Hux’s decisions, Hux’s hand. Is this a mercy, then: to allow Ren the final moments of his life free from the torment of seeing Hux draw his weapon, disgust smeared across his beautiful face? Or is it a kindness for Hux? To spare him the suffering of killing the one he loves?

Phasma follows Ren’s gaze, eyes narrowed, face a mask of loathing. “Is this how you wanted it to be?” she asks, frosted through to her core. “Was this how you thought it would end? My emperor is strong, but you have harmed him more deeply than any wound he could have sustained in battle, more violently than any poison that could have ripped through his body. And still you think you have the right — the privilege — to look upon his face?”

Ren does not drop his eyes from Hux’s still form. _A statue,_ he’d thought of him at first; and he is the same, now, at the last. “I love him.” His voice at first is quiet, picking up in volume, in strength. “I do. I love him.”

Phasma scoffs. “You have taken everything from him, so I will give him this small mercy. Your quick death, no matter that you don’t deserve it. No pain. No suffering. And no chance for a pardon, should he change his mind.” She raises her chin, victorious, cruel. “I will watch over my emperor. I will protect him from harm, because that is what love is: because I love him as if he were my own flesh, and you do not love him at all.”

The blaster is raised now, level with Ren’s heart. Hux’s face blurs through Ren’s tears. He has not moved.

“I love him.”

Phasma’s finger moves toward the trigger, resting.

“I love him.”

The safety clicks.

“I love him.”

The blaster fires.

“I love him.”

The world burns the color of Hux’s hair as Ren watches Hux turn from the scene below him. The last thing he sees.

_I love him, I love him, I love him._

Ren dies.

*

“We humbly petition the court for —”

In the royal palace of Theed, a townsman is cut off in the middle of his request, a rapid muttering sweeping through the room as Queen Leia Amidala, seated and regal on her throne, suddenly hunches in on herself, her face twisting with pain. Her whole body tenses, small, shallow gasps hissing fast through her teeth as she fights to push the rushing agony from her mind. Her brother Luke, on his own throne beside her, reaches for her hand and grips it tightly, his own face drawing into a deep frown as he battles through the waves of sorrow that come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The audience doors slam open as the Princess Rey tears into the room, deathly pale, trembling. Finn and Poe are seconds behind her, horrified, uncomprehending.

“Ben.” Rey says no more as she makes her way forward. She reaches the dais, pushing through the crowd, and collapses at her father’s feet. “Ben,” she says again. “Ben.”

The queen is bent double in anguish. She raises her head, her face streaked with silent tears, and nods once. Finn and Poe rush to Rey’s side, help the princess to her feet. She sags between them like a doll. Luke eases his sister from her throne, and Leia leans heavily against him as they make their way from the chamber, Poe staying behind a moment to make hasty apologies to the gathered crowd. The doors shut, leaving the mass of petitioners to conjecture frantically amongst themselves.  

The wailing begins not long after.

*

On Arkanis, the courtyard is quiet now, empty save for a body dressed in Nabooian clothes. The scavengers circle in the sky. A row of chairs rest on a balcony, cold and uncaring.

There is no love left to be felt in the palace.

*

The emperor does not sleep that night.

The morning comes. His court are accustomed — or had been, before Ren — to seeing their emperor hard at work from before sunrise, never dallying in bed or over breakfast, always punctual and businesslike. He rose early and did not sleep til late, kept a strict and disciplined routine. Ren was the only disruption; he still is, now.

Four o’clock passes. Five. Six. It is at eight o’clock when Phasma finally takes it upon herself to enter the imperial bedroom. A nervous crowd of courtiers has gathered in the hall outside the emperor’s rooms.

“Sir,” Phasma says as she knocks softly on the door. “Your Majesty.”

A noise from within. She enters.

The bed is empty. For a moment the Captain of the Bodyguard is seized with an intangible fear. But then she sees a flicker of movement on the other side of the room, and she relaxes. “My lord.”

The emperor sits huddled in a wide armchair close to the viewports, his back to the door. He is wrapped in furs, although the bed is still full of them. His arms are around his knees like a child’s and he is staring, immobile, at the rain lashing down outside. “Is that you, Phasma?” comes his voice, like winter.

“Yes, Majesty. Yes — Hux,” Phasma says, hurrying to him. She kneels at his side, takes one pale hand in her own, and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Hux,” she says again; for he is not her emperor now. He is her friend, the man she has known since childhood, to whom she swore her loyalty once and has proven again and again. “Hux. Speak to me.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Hux says. His voice is small and distant. “All night. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know.” Phasma kneels still at his side, his hand limp and chilly in hers.

“Ren is gone,” Hux tells her, as if informing her for the first time.

“I know.”

“I killed him.”

“Yes.” She does not know what else to say.

Something hard and bright flashes in his eyes. “Yes!”

“You did your duty.”

“I did my duty,” Hux repeats. “Yes. Yes. He was a traitor and a threat. I killed him. We are safe again. I did my duty. Nothing more.”

He shivers. He takes his hand from Phasma’s to draw the furs closer around himself, and Phasma realises that they don’t match the ones on his bed, which are in shades of silver and grey. These — blackish and bluish in hue — match the décor of Hux’s old suite. Ren’s bedroom.

“Sir,” Phasma begins tentatively, after a silence, “we must...spread the news. Show the people that we have not been brought down by this show of espionage, but have emerged stronger still. That the might of the empire, _your_ empire, is still strong.”

Hux says nothing. His eyes are glassy and red, staring into nothing. She does not know if he can hear her.

She carries on all the same, gentle but firm. “If we broadcast it across the HoloNet, it will reach our farthest troops by the end of the week, perhaps sooner. They need something to lift their spirits, to raise morale.” At this, Hux flinches, but says nothing. “We can spin the story so it looks favourable to us; send a message to Naboo even while we rally our men.”

Still nothing from the emperor. Breaching protocol — they are alone — Phasma lays a hand upon Hux’s shoulder. “It’s for the good of the empire. It will maintain your reputation; enhance it, even. The people will revere you. Finally you’ll have the glory you deserve.”

Hux blinks at her, slowly, seeming to wake from a trance, and nods once. He feels no need for glory, not now — no need to maintain the fiction that Ren had helped him uphold — but for the empire, for his people, he will do anything. He has.

“If it must be done,” he says, his voice hoarse and weary.

Phasma nods. She had known he would come around. “Thank you. I will begin preparations.” She stands. “Will you hold audience, today?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, final.

She nods, unsurprised. “Very well. But might you bathe? Dress? Break your fast?” she coaxes.

Hux stares out the viewport and gives a long, shuddering sigh. “I — yes. I should,” he says distantly. “It is what — what they will expect of me.” He pauses. “What my father would have done.”

Phasma says nothing. She knows he does not want her to agree.

After another long moment, Hux stirs. He rises, still wrapped in Ren’s furs. His usual proud carriage is replaced with a slight stooping hunch, as if the last night has aged him fifty years. “Draw a bath,” he commands her, still sounding far away.

This is not her job, but he has sent his other servants away. Phasma nods. “Yes, sir.”

She fills the tub, and he nods distractedly to her as he goes into the refresher and closes the door behind him. She can hear him sighing, as if in pain, as he lowers himself into the water.

The deep, tall bathtub in the imperial suite is seldom used by Hux: he is a practical man, not a self-indulgent one, and ordinarily he takes short, efficient sonic showers, so as to conserve both resources and time. Ren, though, Phasma knows, had liked to take baths — liked to luxuriate in the steaming-hot tub for sometimes as long as an hour, filling the water with oils and potions and dried flower-petals, emerging wrapped in a towel and a perfumed haze with a sleepy, languorous grin on his face.

Phasma, for one, found the habit distasteful: wasteful, for one, and pointless, even ridiculous, when the palace’s refreshers are equipped with the best and fastest sonic technology in the system. But, she supposed, the brothel-boy had never had proper baths before, had never had hours and hours to waste pampering himself in that way…

Phasma shakes her head, remembering. Ren was not and had never been a lowly brothel-boy. The childish delight in the baths was just another part of the elaborate and treasonous act that had fooled them all, so maliciously and for so long.

She wonders what will happen next. _War, I suppose, will be unavoidable._ She sees no way around it; the queen of Naboo has had the news, and is no doubt amassing her forces even now, prepared to move on the system at once. And if for some reason Leia Amidala, in her grief, does not strike first, then Hux too has grounds to engage, prompted by the installation of an enemy spy in his court. The tense peace in the galaxy has been shattered in one fell stroke — by Phasma’s own blaster-bolt, striking the young prince in his traitorous heart.

_War, then. Will we be ready? Will he?_

Hux has been in the bath for a long time, now. Phasma begins to grow concerned. He shaves with a straight-razor and keeps that razor sharp. She lifts a gloved hand to the refresher door and knocks, twice: “Sir? Is everything all right?”

The noise of water moving, splashing against the side of the tub. She is calmed: _he hasn’t drowned himself, then…_ “Yes,” comes the reply, staid and dispassionate. “Prepare my uniform, if you will.”

“Right away, sir.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hux's line about Ren being at least as trustworthy as he is was lovingly paraphrased from Ernst Lothar's [The Vienna Melody](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23399037-the-vienna-melody).
> 
> We didn't tell you before as we felt it might constitute a spoiler, but this work's title comes from [Dove Season](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xP-DKVnV09w&index=8&list=PL92PPSoePOG_iMALgUDPlCFKho_yIFapy) by In The Valley Below, which can also be found as part of the fic playlist [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL92PPSoePOG_iMALgUDPlCFKho_yIFapy&disable_polymer=true). Thank you again to [Gefionne](http://gefionne.tumblr.com/) for the superb beta-ing; to [flurgburgler](http://flurgburgler.tumblr.com/) and [curlygingerbird](http://curlygingerbird.tumblr.com/) for the lovely art ([x](http://huxes.tumblr.com/post/164875708186/flurgburgler-commissioned-by-huxes-for-theirs), [x](http://huxes.tumblr.com/post/165860115196/thanks-to-gefionne-for-commissioning)); and to [longstoryshortikilledhim](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com) for the beautiful [moodboard](http://huxes.tumblr.com/post/164900017741/longstoryshortikilledhim-dove-season-by)!
> 
> We can be found on Tumblr [here](http://huxes.tumblr.com) and [here](http://redcap64.tumblr.com), and we understand if you want to scream at us. Thank you so, so much for reading; your feedback means the world to us.


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